
Class Lli Z OCp_ 
Book SllJ^L^ 



^'^JL 



THE 



^/^'-^ 



DISTRICT SCHOOL AS IT WAS, 



SCENERY-SHOWING, 



AND OTHER WRITINGS 



BY WARKEN "IBURTON 



BOSTON : 

PRESS or T. R. MARVIN, 42 CONGRESS STREET. 
1852. 



Ij 4 1 5<i 



Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
AVarren Burton, in tlie District Court of the District of Massa- 
chusetts. 



PREFACE. 



This volume contains such productions only as have al- 
ready appeared in print. Two of them, — those named in the 
title page, — have been published as books by themselves, and 
in this form are still for sale. The publishers have kindly 
permitted them to be included in this collection, which is to be 
disposed of to subscribers, for the benefit of the Author. 

'The District School as it Was,' is thus presented to 
the public by the publishers of the last edition, in an advertise- 
ment prefixed to the work. 

" The following work was first published in Boston in 1833, and 
was received with unqualified favor. A second and larger edition 
was issued in New York, with equal success. Several hundred of 
this edition were purchased by a distinguished friend of education, 
in a neighboring State, (Henry Barnard, Esq., of Conn.) and dis- 
tributed for the purpose of suggesting ideas of reform. 

" It was republished in London a few years ago, as giving a faith- 
ful description of one of the Institutions of New England. 

"It is hoped that it will be deemed particularly appropriate to 
School Libraries, and not unsuited to others ; that it will be sought 
as an agreeable gift-book from Teachers to Pupils ; and lastly, that 
it will ever be of historical use to rising generations, educated 
tmder better auspices, as exhibiting a true and graphic picture of 
♦ The District School as it Was.' 

'Scenery-Showing' was published in Boston in 1844, 
under tlie title of the Scenery- Shower, the last word being 



4 PREFACE. 

derived from the verb to shoio. As, however, it is liable to be 
mispronounced, so as to bear an entirely different meaning, or 
rather in this connection, no meaning at all, a new but similar 
title has been adopted. In respect to the object of the work, 
the reader is referred to its introductory matter in the proper 
place. 

The other pieces, with one exception, have appeared in 
periodicals. Some of the titles have been slightly changed. 
The narrative and descriptive portions are more likely to 
attract readers, while the more solid matter may be neglected ; 
for this reason, attention is especially asked to the article 
headed, ' The Divine Agency in Nature.' In this, some 
views are presented. respecting God's presence and immediate 
action in the material universe, which are not entertained at all 
by some minds, and which, though believed, are not clearly 
apprehended by others. 

The closing effusion was the first production of the author 
that ever appeared in print. It was sent to a religious periodi- 
cal in 1824, in such a way as to leave the writer unknown. It 
has been sought and found among the things gone by, as per- 
ad venture, by revision, it might make an appropriate conclusion. 
It was, however, committed to the press, word for word, as it 
was originally penned by the inexperienced and diffident 
writer, nearly twenty-eight years ago. 

Finally, it is hoped that in this volume will be found not only 
entertainment but instruction, and that it will be considered a 
desirable addition to the Family Library. 

Boston, May 7, 1852. 



CONTENTS. 



The District School as it Was, 13 

A SirpPLICATION TO THE PeOPLE OF THE UnITED StATES, . 155 

A Traveler's Story, for the Perusal of Parents, . . 177 

The Mountain Town and the Magnanimous Boy, . . . 189 

The Lighthouse of Lighthouses, 201 

The Dark of Autumn and the Bright of "Winter in 

New England, 211 

Scenery-Showing, in Word-Paintings of the Beautiful, 

the Picturesque, and the Grand in Nature, . . 219 

The Divine Agency in Nature, 315 

The Devout African, 335 

Emulation, as a Motive to Study, 343 

A Prayer, 363 




FRONTISPIECE. — Seep. 27. 

COPIED FROM " THE ONLY SURE GUIDE.' 



THE 



DISTRICT SCHOOL 



AS IT WAS 



ONE WHO "WENT TO IT. 



A W R D 

To the glancing Reader, if he will just stop a moment and see 
what it is. 

This little volume was written in the hope that it would be a 
trifling aid to that improvement which is going on in respect 
to common schools. It was also intended to present a pleasant 
picture of some peculiarities which have prevailed in our 
country, but are now passing away. 

It is trusted that no one Avho has kept* or is keeping a dis- 
trict school after the old fashion, will be offended at the slight 
degree of satire he will meet with here. Any one of due 
benevolence is willing to be laughed at, and even to join in the 
laugh against himself, if it will but hasten the tardy steps of 
improvement. Indeed, there are quite a number who have 
reason to believe that the author has here sketched some of his 
own school-keeping deficiencies. 

It may be reasonably anticipated, that the young will be the 
most numerous readers of these pages. Some scenes have 
been described, the sports of the school-going season, for in- 

* Keep school is a very different thing fri>m leach school, according to Mr. 
J. G. Carter, in his Essays on Popular Eilucation. 



16 TO THE READER. 

stance, with a special view to their entertainment. It ia 
trusted, however, that the older may not find it unpleasant to 
recall the pastimes of their early years. 

Now and then a word has been used which some young 
readers may not understand. In this case they are entreated 
to seek a dictionary, and find out its meaning. They may be 
assured that the time spent in this way will not be lost. The 
definition thus acquired may be of use to them the very next 
book they shall take up, or at least in the course of the reading", 
their future leisure will allow them to enjoy. 

The reader shall no longer be detained from the experience 
of a supposed school-boy ; if true to nature, no matter whether 
it really be, or be not, that of the 

Author. 



THE 



DISTRICT SCHOOL AS IT WAS, 



CHAPTER I. 

THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

The Old School-house, as it used to be called, 
how distinctly it rises to existence anew before the 
eye of my mind ! Here was kept the District 
School as it was. This was the seat of my rustic 
Alma Mater, to borrow a phrase from collegiate and 
classic use. It is now no more ; and those of sim- 
ilar construction are passing away, never to be 
patterned again. It may be well, therefore, to 
describe the edifice wherein and whereabout occur- 
red many of the scenes about to be recorded. I 
would have future generations acquainted with the 
accommodations, or rather dis-accommodations, of 
their predecessors. 

The Old School-house in District No. 5, stood on 
the top of a very high hill, on the north side of 
what was called the County road. The house of 
2* 



18 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

Capt. Clark, about ten rods off, was the only human 
dwelling within a quarter of a mile. The reason 
why this seminary of letters was perched so high 
in the air, and so far from the homes of those who 
resorted to it, was this : — Here was the centre of 
the district, as near as surveyor's chain could desig,- 
nate. The people east would not permit the build- 
ing to be carried one rod further west, and those 
of the opposite quarter were as obstinate on their 
side. So here it was placed ; and this continued 
to be literally the " hill of science " to generation 
after generation of learners, for fifty years. 

The edifice was set half in Capt. Clark's field, 
and half in the road. The wood-pile lay in the 
corner made by the east end and the stone wall. 
The best roof it ever had over it was the changeful 
sky, which was a little too leaky to keep the fuel 
at all times fit for combustion, without a great deal 
of puffing and smoke. The door-step was a broad 
unhewn rock, brought from the neighboring pasture. 
It had not a flat and even surface, but was consider- 
ably sloping from the door to the road ; so that, in 
icy times, the scholars, in passing out, used to snatch 
from the scant declivity the transitory pleasure of 
a slide. But look out for a slip-up, ye careless ; for 
many a time have I seen an urchin's head where his 
feet were but a second before. And once, the most 
lofty and perpendicular pedagogue I ever knew, 
became suddenly horizontalized in his egress. 

But we have lingered round this door-step long 
enough. Before we cross it, however, let us just 



AS IT WAS. 19 

glance at the outer side of the structure. It was 
never painted by man ; but the clouds of many- 
years had stained it with their own dark hue. The 
nails were starting from their fastness, and fellow- 
clapboards were becoming less closely and warmly 
intimate. There were six windows, which here and 
there stopped and distorted the passage of light by 
fractures, patches, and seams of putty. There were 
shutters of board, like those of a store, which were 
of no kind of use, excepting to keep the windows 
from harm in vacations, when they were the least 
liable to harm. They might have been convenient 
screens against the summer sun, were it not that 
their shade was inconvenient darkness. Some of 
these, from loss of buttons, were fastened back by 
poles, which were occasionally thrown down in the 
heedlessness of play, and not replaced till repeated 
slams had broken a pane of glass, or the patience of 
the teacher. To crown this description of externals, 
I must say a word about the roof. The shingles 
had been battered apart by a thousand rains ; and, 
excepting where the most defective had been 
exchanged for new ones, they were dingy with the 
mold and moss -of time. The bricks of the 
chimney-top were losing their cement, and looked 
as if some high wind might hurl them from their 
smoky vocation. 

We will now go inside. First, there is an entry 
which the district were sometimes provident enough 
to store with dry pine wood, as an antagonist to the 
greenness and wetness of the other fuel. A door 



20 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

on the left admits us to the school-room. Here is 
a space about twenty feet long and ten wide, the 
reading and spelling parade. At the south end of 
it, at the left as you enter, was one seat and 
writing bench, making a right angle with the rest 
of the seats. This was occupied in the winter by 
two of the oldest males in the school. At the 
opposite end was the magisterial desk, raised upon 
a platform a foot from the floor. The fire-place 
was on the right, half way between the door 
of entrance and another door leading into a dark 
closet, where the girls put their outside garments 
and their dinner baskets. This also served as a 
fearful dungeon for the immuring of offenders. 
Directly opposite the fire-place was an aisle, two 
feet and a half wide, running up an inclined floor 
to the opposite side of the room. On each side of 
this were five or six long seats and writing benches, 
for the accommodation of the school at their studies. 
In front of these, next to the spelling floor, were 
low, narrow seats for abecedarians and others near 
that rank. In general, the older the scholar, the 
further from the front was his location. The win- 
dows behind the back seat were so low that the 
traveler could generally catch the stealthy glance 
of curiosity as he passed. Such was the Old 
School-house at the time I first entered it. Its 
subsequent condition and many other inconveni- 
ences will be noticed hereafter. 



AS IT WAS. 31 



CHAPTER II. 

FIRST SUMMER AT SCHOOL MARY SMITH. 

I WAS three years and a half old when I first en* 
tered the Old School-house as an abecedarian. I 
ought, perhaps, to have set foot on the first step of 
learning's ladder before this ; but I had no elder 
brother or sister to lead me to school, a mile off j 
and it never occurred to my good parents, that they 
could teach me even the alphabet ; or, perhaps, 
they could not afford the time, or muster the 
patience for the tedious process. I had, however, 
learned the name of capital A, because it stood at 
the head of the column, and was the similitude of a 
harrow frame ; of O, also, from its resemblance to 
a hoop. Its sonorous name, moreover, was a fre- 
quent passenger through my mouth, after I had be- 
gun to articulate ; its ample sound being the most 
natural medium by which man, born unto trouble, 
signifies the pains of his lot. X, too, was familiar, 
as it seemed so like the end of the old saw-horse 
that stood in the wood-shed. Further than this my 
alphabetical lore did not extend, according to present 
recollection. 

I shall never forget my first day of scholarship, 
as it was the most important era which had yet 



22 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

occurred to my experience. Behold me on the 
eventful morning of the first Monday in June, 
arrayed in my new jacket and trousers, into which 
my importance had been shoved for the first time 
in my life. This change in my costume had been 
deferred till this day, that I might be '' all nice and 
clean to go to school." Then my Sunday hat — 
(not of soft drab-colored fur, ye city urchins, but 
of coarse and hard sheep's wool) — my Sunday hat 
adorned my head for the first time in common 
week-day use ; for my other had been crushed, 
torn, and soiled out of the seemliness, and almost 
out of the form, of a hat. My little new basket, 
too, bought expressly for the purpose, was laden 
with 'lection-cake and cheese for my dinner, and 
slung upon my arm. An old Perry's spelling-book, 
that our boy Ben used at the winter school, com- 
pleted my equipment. 

Mary Smith was my first teacher, and the dearest 
to my heart I ever had. She was a niece of Mrs. 
Carter, who lived in the nearest house on the way 
to school. She had visited her aunt the winter 
before ; and her uncle, being chosen committee for 
the school at the town-meeting in the spring, sent 
immediately to her home in Connecticut, and en- 
gaged her to teach the summer school. During the 
few days she spent at his house, she had shown 
herself peculiarly qualified to interest, and to gain 
the love of children. Some of the neighbors, too, 
who had dropped in while she was there, were 
much pleased with her appearance. She had taught 



AS IT WAS. 23 

one season in her native State ; and that she suc- 
ceeded well, Mr. Carter could not doubt. He pre- 
ferred her, therefore, to hundreds near by; and for 
once the partiality of the relative proved profitable 
to the district. 

Now Mary Smith was to board at her uncle's. 
This was deemed a fortunate circumstance on my 
account, as she would take care of me on the way, 
which was needful to my inexperienced childhood. 
My mother led me to Mr. Carter's, to commit me to 
my guardian and instructor for the summer. I en- 
tertained the most extravagant ideas of the dignity 
of the school-keeping vocation, and it was with 
trembling reluctance that I drew near the presence 
of so lovely a creature as they told me Mary Smith 
was. But she so gently took my quivering little 
hand, and so tenderly stooped and kissed my cheek, 
and said such soothing and winning words, that my 
timidity was gone at once. 

She used to lead me to school by the hand, while 
John and Sarah Carter gamboled on, unless I chose 
to gambol with them ; but the first day, at least, I 
kept by her side. All her demeanor toward me, 
and indeed toward us all, was of a piece with her 
first introduction. She called me to her to read, 
not with a look and voice as if she were doing a 
duty she disliked, and was determined I should do 
mine too, like it or not, as is often the manner of 
teachers ; but with a cheerful smile and a softening 
eye, as if she were at a pastime, and wished me to 
partake of it. 



24 , THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

My first business was to master the ABC, and 
no small achievement it was ; for many a little 
learner waddles to school through the summer, and 
wallows to the same through the winter, before he 
accomplishes it, if he happens to be taught in the 
manner of former times. This might have been 
my lot, had it not been for Mary Smith. Few of 
the better methods of teaching, which now make 
the road to knowledge so much more easy and 
pleasant, had then found their way out of or into, 
the brain of the pedagogical vocation. Mary went 
on in the old way indeed ; but the whole exercise 
was done with such sweetness on her part, that the 
dilatory and usually unpleasant task was to me a 
pleasure, and consumed not so much precious time 
as it generally does in the case of heads as stupid as 
mine. By the close of that summer, the alphabet 
was securely my own. That hard, and to me un- 
meaning, string of sights and sounds, were bound 
forever to my memory by the ties created by gentle 
tones and looks. 

That hardest of all tasks, sitting becomingly still, 
was rendered easier by her goodness. When I 
grew restless, and turned from side to side, and 
changed from posture to posture, in search of relief 
from my uncomfortableness, she spoke words of 
sympathy rather than reproof Thus I was won 
to be as quiet as I could. When I grew drowsy, 
and needed but a comfortable position to drop into 
sleep and forgetfulness of the weary hours, she 
would gently lay me at length on my seat, and 



AS IT WAS, ' 25 

leave me just falling to slumber, with her sweet 
smile the last thing beheld or remembered. 

Thus wore away my first summer at the district 
school. As I look back on it, faintly traced on 
memory, it seems like a beautiful dream, the images 
of which are all softness and peace. I recollect 
that, when the last day came, it was not one of 
light-hearted joy — it was one of sadness, and it 
closed in tears. I was now obliged to stay at home 
in solitude, for the want of playmates, and in weari- 
ness of the passing time, for the want of some- 
thing to do ; as there was no particular pleasure in 
saying A B C all alone, with no Mary Smith's voice 
and looks for an accompaniment. 



26 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER III 



THE SPELLING-BOOK. 



As the spelling-book was the first manual of in- 
struction used in school, and kept in our hands for 
many years, I think it worthy of a separate chapter 
in these annals of the times that are past. The 
spelling-book used in our school from time imme- 
morial — immemorial at least to the generation of 
learners to which I belonged — was thus entitled : 
" The Only Sure Guide to the English Tongue, 
by WiUiam Perry, Lecturer of the English Lan- 
guage in the Academy of Edinburgh, and author of 
several valuable school-books." What a magnifi- 
cent title ! To what an enviable superiority had 
its author arrived! The Only Sure Guide! Of 
course, the book must be as infaUible as tlie catholic 
creed, and its author the very Pope of the jurisdic- 
tion of letters. 

But the contents of the volume manifested most 
clearly the pontifical character of the illustrious 
man ; for, from the beginning to the end thereof, 
faith and memory were all that was demanded of 
the novice. The understanding was no more called 
on than that of the devotee at his Latin mass-book. 
But let us enter on particulars. In the first place, 



AS IT WAS. 37 

there was a frontispiece. We little folks, however, 
did not then know that the great picture facing the 
title-page was so denominated. This frontispiece 
consisted of two parts. In the upper division, there 
was the representation of a tree laden with fruit of 
the largest description. It was intended, I presume, 
as a striking and alluring emblem of the general 
subject, the particular branches, and the rich fruits 
of education. But the figurative meaning was 
above my apprehension, and no one took the trouble 
to explain it. I supposed it nothing but the picture 
of a luxuriant apple-tree ; and it always made me 
think of that good tree in my father's orchard, so 
dear to my palate, — the pumpkin-sweeting. 

There ran a ladder from the ground up among 
the branches, which was designed to represent the 
ladder of learning ; but of this I was ignorant. 
Little boys were ascending this in pursuit of the 
fruit that hung there so temptingly. Others were 
already up in the tree, plucking the apples directly 
from their stems; while others were on the ground, 
picking up those that had dropped in their ripeness. 
At the very top of the tree, with his head reared 
above all fruit or foliage, was a bare-headed lad 
with a book in his hand, which he seemed intently 
studying. I supposed that he was a boy that loved 
his book better than apples, as all good boys should, 
— one who in very childhood had trodden tempta- 
tion under foot. But, indeed, it was only a boy 
who was gathering fruit from the topmost boughs, 
according to the figurative meaning, as the others 



28 THE DISTRICT SCFIOOL 

were from those lower down. Or rather, as he was 
portrayed, he seemed like one who had culled the 
fairest and highest growing apples, and was trying 
to learn from a book where he should find a fresh 
and loftier tree, upon which he might climb to a 
richer repast and a nobler distinction. 

This picture used to retain my eye longer than 
any other in the book. It was probably more 
agreeable on account of the other part of the fron- 
tispiece below it. This was the representation of a 
school at their studies, with the master at his desk. 
He was pictured as an elderly man, with an im- 
mense wig enveloping his head and bagging about 
his neck, and with a face that had a sort of half- 
way look, or rather, perhaps, a compound look, 
made up of an expression of perplexity at a sentence 
in parsing, or a sum in arithmetic, and a frown at 
the playful urchins in the distant seats. There 
could not have been a more capital device by which 
the pleasures of a free range and delicious eating, 
both so dear to the young, might be contrasted 
with stupefying confinement and longing palates in 
the presence of crabbed authority. Indeed, the 
first thing the Only Sure Guide said to its pupil 
was, " Play truant and be happy; " and most of the 
subsequent contents were not of a character to make 
the child forget this preliminary advice. These 
contents I was going on to describe in detail ; but 
on second thought I forbear, for fear that the de- 
scription might be as tedious to my readers as the 
study of them was to me. Sufiice it to say, there 



AS IT WAS. 29 

was talk about vowels and consonants, diphthongs 
and triphthongs, monosyllables and polysyllables, 
orthography and punctuation, and even about 
geography, all which was about as intelligible to 
us, who were obliged to commit it to memory year 
after year, as the fee-faw-fum uttered by the giant 
in one of our story-books. 

Perry's spelling-book, as it was in those days, at 
least, is now out of use. It is no where to be 
found except in fragments in some dark corner of a 
country cupboard or garret. All vestiges of it will 
soon disappear for ever. What will the rising 
generations do, into what wilds of barbarism will 
they wander, into what pits of ignorance fall, with- 
out the aid of the Only Sure Guide to the English 
tongue ? 



3* 



30 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER IV 



FIRST WINTER AT SCHOOL. 



How I longed for the winter school to begin, to 
which I looked forward as a relief from my do- 
nothing days, and as a renewal, in part at least, of 
the soft and glowing pleasures of the past summer ! 
But the schoolmaster, the thought of him was a 
fearful looking-for of frowns and fernlings. Had I 
not heard our Ben tell of the direful punishments 
of the winter school ; of the tingling hand, black 
and blue with twenty strokes, and not to be closed 
for a fortnight from soreness ? Did not the minister 
and the schoolmaster of the preceding winter visit 
together at our house, one evening, and did I not 
think the schoolmaster far the more awful man of 
the two ? The minister took me in his lap, gave 
me a kiss, and told me about his own little Charley 
at home, whom I must come and see ; and he set 
me down with the impression that he was not half 
so terrible as I had thought him. But the school- 
master condescended to no words with me. He 
was as stiff and unstooping as the long kitchen fire- 
shovel, and as solemn of face as a cloudy fast-day. 
A trifling incident happened which increased my 
dread, and darkened my remembrance of him by 



AS IT WAS. 31 

another shade. I had slily crept to the table on 
which stood the hats of our visitors, and in childish 
curiosity had first got hold of a glove, then a letter, 
which reposed in the crown of the magisterial head- 
covering. The owner's eye suddenly caught me at 
the mischief, and he gave me a look and a shake of 
his upper extremity, so full of " Let it alone or I 
will flog you " in their meaning, that I was struck 
motionless for an hour with fright, and had hard 
work to dam up, with all the strength of my quiver- 
ing lips, a choking baby cry. Thenceforth, school- 
masters to my timid heart were of all men the most 
to be dreaded. 

The winter at length came, and the first day of 
the school was fixed and made known, and the 
longed-for morning finally arrived. With hoping, 
yet fearing heart, I was led by Ben to school. But 
my fears respecting the teacher were not realized 
that winter. He had nothing particularly remark- 
able about him to my little mind. He had his 
hands too full of the great things of the great 
scholars to take much notice of me, excepting to 
hear me read my Abs four times a day. This 
exercise he went through like a great machine, and 
I like a little one ; so monotonous was the hum- 
drum and regular the recurrence of a6, eh, ib, ob, ub, 
&c., from day to day, and week to week. To recur 
to the metaphor of a ladder by which progress in 
learning is so often illustrated, I was all summer on 
the lowest round, as it were, lifting first one foot 
and then the other, still putting it down in the same 



32 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

place, without going any higher ; and all winter, 
while at school, I was as wearily tap-tapping it on 
the second step, with the additional drawback of 
not having Mary Smith's sweet manners to win me 
up to the stand, help me cheerfully through the 
task, and set me down again, pleased with her, if 
with nothing else. 

There was one circumstance, however, in the 
daily routine, which was a matter of some little 
excitement and pleasure. I was put into a class. 
Truly my littleness, feelingly, if not actually and 
visibly, enlarged itself, when I was called out with 
Sam Allen, Henry Green, and Susan Clark, to take 
our stand on the floor as the sixth class. I marched 
up with the tread of a soldier; and, thinks I, "Who 
has a better right to be at the head than myself? " 
so the head I took, as stiff and as straight as a cob. 
My voice, too, if it lost none of its treble, was 
pitched a key louder, as a — h ah rang through the 
realm. And when we had finished, I looked up 
among the large scholars, as I strutted to my seat, 
with the thought, '*Iam almost as big as you now," 
puffing out my tiny soul. Now, moreover, I held 
the book in my own hand, and kept the place with 
my own finger, instead of standing like a very little 
boy, with my hands at my side, following with my 
eye the point of the mistress's scissors. 

There was one terror at this winter school which 
I must not omit in this chronicle of my childhood. 
Tt arose from the circumstance of meeting so many 
faces which I had never seen before, or at least had 



AS IT WAS. 33 

never seen crowded together in one body. All the 
great boys and girls, who had been kept at home 
during the summer, now left axes and shovels, 
needles and spinning-wheels, and poured into the 
winter school. There they sat, side by side, head 
after head, row above row. For this I did not 
care ; but every time the master spoke to me for 
any little misdemeanor, it seemed as if all turned 
their eyes on my timid self, and I felt petrified by 
the gaze. But this simultaneous and concentrated 
eye-shot was the most distressing when I happened 
late, and was obliged to go in after the school were 
all seated in front of my advance. Those forty — I 
should say eighty eyes (for most of them had two 
apiece,) glancing up from their books as I opened 
the door, were as much of a terror to me as so many 
deadly gun-muzzles would be to a raw military 
recruit. I tottered into the room and toward my 
seat with a palsying dismay, as if every one was 
aiming an eye for my destruction. 

The severest duty I was ever called to perform 
was sitting on that little front seat, at my first 
winter school. My lesson in the Abs conveyed no 
ideas, excited no interest, and, of course, occupied 
but very little of my time. There was nothing 
before me on which to lean my head, or lay my 
arms, but my own knees. I could not lie down to 
drowse, as in summer, for want of room on the 
crowded seat. How my limbs ached for the free- 
dom and activity of play ! It sometimes seemed as 
if a drubbing from the master, or a kick across the 
school-house, would have been a pleasant relief. 



34 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

But these bonds upon my limbs were not all. I 
had trials by fire in addition. Every cold forenoon, 
the old fire-place, wide and deep, was kept a roaring 
furnace of flame, for the benefit of blue noses, 
chattering jaws, and aching toes, in the more distant 
regions. The end of my seat, just opposite the 
chimney, was oozy with melted pitch, and some- 
times almost smoked with combustion. Judge, 
then, of what living flesh had to bear. It was a 
toil to exist. I truly ate the bread of instruction, 
or rather nibbled at the crust of it, in the sweat of 
my face. 

But the pleasures and the pains of this season at 
school did not continue long. After a few weeks, 
the storms and drifts of midwinter kept me mostly 
at home. Henry Allen was in the same predica- 
ment. As for Susan Clark, she did not go at all 
after the first three or four days. In consequence 
of the sudden change from roasting within doors to 
freezing without, she took a violent cold, and was 
sick all winter. 



AS IT WAS. 



CHAPTER V. 

SECOND SUMMER — MARY SMITH AGAIN. 

The next summer, Mary Smith was the mistress 
again. She gave such admirable satisfaction, that 
there was but one unanimous wish that she should 
be re-engaged. Unanimous, I said, but it was not 
quite so ; for Capt. Clark, who lived close by the 
school-house, preferred somebody else, no matter 
whom, fit or not fit, who should board with him, as 
the teachers usually did. But Mary would board 
with her aunt Carter, as before. Then Mr. Patch's 
family grumbled not a little, and tried to find fault ; 
for they wanted their Polly should keep the school 
and board at home, and help her mother night and 
morning, and save the pay for the board to boot. 
Otherwise Polly must go into a distant district, to 
less advantage to the family purse. Mrs. Patch 
was heard to guess that " Polly could keep as good 
a school as any body else. Her edication had cost 
enough any how. She had been to our school 
summer after summer, and winter after winter, ever 
since she was a little gal, and had then been to the 
'cademy three months besides. She hSd moreover 
taught three sunimers already, and was twenty-one ; 
whereas Mary Smith had taught but two, and was 



36 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

only nineteen.'' But the committee had not such 
confidence in the experienced Polly's qualifications. 
All who had been to school with her knew that her 
head was dough, if ever head was. And all who 
had observed her school-keeping career (she never 
kept but once in the same place) pretty soon came 
to the same conclusion, notwithstanding her loaf of 
brains had been three months in that intellectual 
oven called by her mother the 'cademy. 

So Mary Smith kept the school, and I had 
another delightful summer under . her care and in- 
struction. I was four years and a half old now, 
and had grown an inch. I was no tiny, whining, 
half-scared baby, as in the first summer. No, in- 
deed ; I had been to the winter school, had read in 
a class, and had stood up at the fire with the great 
boys, had seen a snow-ball fight, and had been ac- 
cidentally hit once by the icy missile of big-fisted 
Joe Swagger. 

I looked down upon two or three fresh, slobbering 
abecedarians with a pride of superiority, greater- 
perhaps than I ever felt again. We read not in a6, 
c6, &c., but in words that meant something ; and, 
before the close of the summer, in what were called 
the " Reading Lessons," that is, little words ar- 
ranged in little sentences. 

Mary was the same sweet angel this season as 
the last. I did not, of course, need her soothing 
and smiling assiduity as before ; but still she was a 
mother to me in tenderness. She was forced to 
caution us younglings pretty often ; yet it was done 



AS IT WAS. 37 

with such sweetness, that a caution from her was 
as effectual as would be a frown, and indeed a blow, 
from mauy others. At least, so it was with me. 
She used to resort to various severities with the 
refractory and idle, and in one instance she used the 
ferule ; but we all knew, and the culprit knew, that 
it was well deserved. 

At the close of the school, there was a deeper 
sadness in our hearts than on the last summer's 
closing day. She had told us that she should never 
be our teacher again,— should probably never meet 
many of us again in this world. She gave us much 
parting advice about loving and obeying God, and 
loving and doing good to every body. She shed 
tears as she talked to us, and that made our own 
flow still more. When we were dismissed, the 
customary and giddy laugh was not heard. Many 
were sobbing with grief, and even the least sensi- 
tive were softened and subdued to an unusual quiet- 
ness. 

The last time I ever saw Mary was Sunday 
evening, on my way home from meeting. As we 
passed Mr. Carter's, she came out to the chaise 
where I sat between my parents, to bid us good-by. 
Oh, that last kiss, that last smile, and those last 
to,nes ! Never shall I forget them, so long as I have 
power to remember or capacity to love. The next 
morning she left for her native town ; and before 
another summer, she was married. As Mr. Carter 
soon moved from our neighborhood, the dear in- 
structress never visited it again. 
4 



38 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER VI. 

THIRD SUMMER MEHITABEL HOLT AND OTHER 

INSTRUCTRESSES. 

This summer, a person named Mehitabel Holt 
was our teacher. It was with eager dehght that I 
set out for school on the first morning. The dull 
months that intervened between the winter school 
and the summer had seemed longer than ever. I 
longed for the companionship and the sports of 
school. I had heard nothing about the mistress, 
excepting that she was an experienced and approved 
one. On my way, the image of something like 
Mary Smith arose to my imagination ; a young 
lady with pleasant face and voice, and a winning 
gentleness of manner. This was natural ; for 
Mary was the only mistress I had ever been to, and 
in fact the only one I had ever seen, who made any 
impression on my mind in her school-keeping 
capacity. What, then, was my surprise when my 
eyes first fell on Mehitabel Holt ! I shall not 
describe how nature had made her, or time had 
altered her. Engaging manners and loveliness of 
character do not depend on the freshness of youth, 
fineness of complexion, or symmetry of form. She 
was not lovely ; her first appearance indicated this ; 



k: 



AS IT WAS. 



for the disposition will generally speak through the 
face. Subsequent experience proved Mehitabel to 
differ from the dear Mary as much as all that is sour 
does from the quintessence of sweetness. She had 
been well-looking, indeed rather beautiful once, I 
have heard; but, if so, the acidity of her temper 
had diffused itself through, and lamentably corroded 
this valued gift of nature. 

She kept order ; for her punishments were horri- 
ble, especially to us little ones. She dungeoned us 
in that windowless closet just for a whisper. She 
tied us to her chair-post for an hour, because sport- 
ive nature tempted our fingers and toes into some- 
thing like play. If we were restless on our seats, 
wearied of our posture, fretted by the heat, or sick 
of the unintelligible lesson, a twist of the ear, or a 
snap on the head from her thimbled finger, reminded 
us that sitting perfectly still was the most important 
virtue of a little boy in school. Our forenoon and 
afternoon recess was allowed to be five minutes 
only ; and, even during that time, our voices must 
not rise above the tone of quiet conversation. That 
delightful exercise of juvenile lungs, hallooing, was 
a capital crime. Our noonings, in which we used 
formerly to rejoice in the utmost freedom of legs 
and lungs, were now like the noonings of the 
Sabbath, in the restraints imposed upon us. As 
Mehitabel boarded at Captain Clark's, any ranging 
in the fields, or raising of the voice, was easily 
detected by her watchful senses. 

As the prevalent idea in those days respecting a 



40 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

good school was, that there should be no more 
sound and motion than was absolutely necessary, 
Mehitabel was on the whole, popular with the 
parents. She kept us still, and forced us to get our 
lessons ; and that was something uncommon in a 
mistress. So she was employed the next summer 
to keep our childhood in bondage. Had her strict 
rules been enforced by any thing resembling Mary 
Smith's sweet and sympathetic disposition and 
manners, they would have been endurable. But, 
as it was, our schooling those two summers was a 
pain to the body, a weariness to the mind, and a 
disgust to the heart. 

I shall not devote a separate chapter to all my 
summer teachers. What more I may have to say 
of them I shall put into this. They w^ere none of 
them like Mehitabel i'n severity, nor all of them 
equal to her in usefulness, and none of them equal 
in any respect to Mary Smith. Some were very 
young, scarcely sixteen, and as unfit to manage 
that " harp of thousand strings," the human mind, 
as is the unskilled and changeful wind to manage 
any musical instrument by which science and taste 
delights the ear. Some kept tolerable order; others 
made the attempt, but did not succeed ; others did 
not even make the attempt. All would doubtless 
have done better, had they been properly educated 
and disciplined themselves. 

After I was ten years old, I ceased to attend the 
summer school except in foul weather, as in fair I 
was wanted at home on the farm. These scatter- 



AS IT WAS. 41 

ing days, I and others of nearly the same age were 
sent to school by our parents, in hopes that we 
should get at least a snatch of knowledge. But 
this rainy-day schooling was nothing but vanity to 
lis, and vexation of spirit to the mistress. We 
could read and spell better than the younger and 
regular scholars, and were puffed up with our own 
superiority. We showed our contempt for the mis- 
tress and her orders, by doing mischief ourselves, 
and leading others into temptation. 

If she had the boldness to apply the ferule, we 
laughed in her face, unless her blows were laid on 
with something like masculine strength. In case 
of such severity, we waited for our revenge till the 
close of the school for the day, when we took the 
liberty to let saucy words reach her ear, especially 
if the next day was likely to be fair, and we of 
course were not to re-appear in her realm till foul 
weather again. 



4* 



42 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER VII. 

LITTLE BOOKS PRESENTED THE LAST DAY OF THE SCHOOL. 

There was one circumstance connected with the 
history of summer schools of so great importance 
to little folks, that it must not be omitted. It was 
this. The mistress felt obliged to give little books 
to all her pupils on the closing day of her school. 
Otherwise she would be thought stingy, and half 
the good she had done during the summer would 
be canceled by the omission of the expected dona- 
tions. If she had the least generosity, or hoped to 
be remembered with any respect and affection, she 
must devote a week's wages, and perhaps more, to 
the purchase of these little toy-books. My first 
present, of course, was. from Mary Smith. It was 
not a little book the first summer, but it was some- 
thing that pleased me more. 

The last day of the school had arrived. All, as 
I have somewhere said before, were sad that it was 
now to finish. My only solace was that I should 
now have a little book, for I was not unmoved in 
the general expectation that prevailed. After the 
reading and spelling, and all the usual exercises of 
the school, were over, Mary took from her desk a 
pile of the glittering httle things we were looking 



AS IT WAS. 43 

for. What beautiful covers, — red, yellow, blue, 
green ! Oh ! not the first buds of spring, not the 
first rose of summer, not the rising moon, nor gor- 
geous rainbow, seemed so charming as that first pile 
of books now spread out on her lap, as she sat in 
her chair in front of the school. All eyes were 
now centered on the outspread treasures. Admira- 
tion and expectation were depicted on every face. 
Pleasure glowed in every heart ; for the worst, as 
well as the best, calculated with certainty on a 
present. What a beautifier of the countenance 
agreeable emotions are ! The most ugly visaged 
were beautiful now with the radiance of keen 
anticipation. The scholars were called out one by 
one to receive the dazzHng gifts, beginning at the 
oldest. I, being an abecedarian, must wait till the 
last ; but as I knew that my turn would surely come 
in due order, I was tolerably patient. But what 
was my disappointment, my exceeding bitterness of 
grief, when the last book on Mary's lap was given 
away, and my name not yet called ! Every one 
present had received, except myself and two others 
of the ABC rank. I felt the tears starting to my 
eyes ; my lips were drawn to their closest pucker to 
hold in my emotions from audible outcry. I heard 
my fellow-sufferer at my side draw long and heavy 
breaths, the usual preliminaries to the bursting out 
of grief. This feeling, however, was but momen- 
tary ; for Mary immediately said, " Charles and 
Henry and Susan, you may now all come to me 
together : " at the same time her hand was put into 



44 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

her work-bag. We were at her side in an instant, 
and in that time she held in her hand— what? Not 
three Httle picture-books, but what was to us a sur- 
prising novelty, viz., three little birds wrought from 
sugar by the confectioner's art. I had never seen 
or heard or dreamed of such a thing. What a 
revulsion of delighted feehng now swelled my little 
bosom ! '' If I should give you books," said Mary, 
" you could not read them at present ; so I have got 
for you what you will like better perhaps, and there 
will be time enough for you to have books, when 
you shall be able to read them. So, take these 
little birds, and see how long you can keep them." 
We were perfectly satisfied, and even felt ourselves 
distinguished above the rest. My bird was more to 
me than all the songsters in the air, although it 
could not fly, or sing, or open its mouth. I kept it 
for years, until by accident it was crushed to pieces, 
and was no longer a bird. 

But Susan Clark — I was provoked at her. Her 
bird was nothing to her but a piece of pepperminted 
sugar, and not a keepsake from Mary Smith. She 
had not left the school-house before she had nibbled 
off its bill. But her mother was always tickling 
her palate with sugar-plums, raisins, cookies, and 
such like, which the rest of us were not accustomed 
to ; and she had no idea that the sweet little sugar 
bird was made, at least was given, for the sake of 
her heart, rather than her palate. 

The next summer, my present was the ''Death 
and Burial of Cock Robin." This was from the 



AS IT WAS. 45 

dearly loved Mary, too. I could then do something 
more than look at the pictures. I could read the 
tragic history which was told in verse below the 
pictured representations of the mournful drama. 
How I used to gaze and wonder at what I saw in 
that little book ! Could it be that all this really 
took place ; that the sparrow really did do the mur- 
derous deed with his bow and his arrow ? I never 
knew before that birds had such things. Then 
there was the fish with his dish, the rook with his 
book, the owl with his shovel, &c. Yet, if it were 
not all true, why should it be so pictured and rela- 
ted in the book? I had the impression that every 
thing that was printed in a book was surely true ; 
and as no one thought to explain to me the nature 
of a fable, I went on puzzled and wondering, till 
progressive reason at length divined its meaning. 
But Cock Robin, with its red cover and gilded 
edges — I have it now. It is the first little book I 
ever received, and it was from Mary Smith; and, as 
it is the only tangible memento of her goodness 
that I possess, I shall keep it as long as I can. 

I had a similar present each successive season, so 
long as I regularly attended the summer school. 
What m.arvels did they contain ! How curiosity 
and wonder feasted on their contents ! They were 
mostly about giants, fairies, witches, and ghosts. 
By this kind of reading, superstition was trained up 
to a monstrous growth ; and, as courage could not 
thrive in its cold and gloomy shadow, it was a 
sickly shoot for years. Giants, fairies, witches, and 



46 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

ghosts, were ready to pounce upon me from every 
dark corner in the day time, and from all around in 
the night, if I happened to be alone. I trembled to 
go to bed. alone for years; and I was often almost 
paralyzed with horror when I chanced to wake in 
the stillness of midnight, and my ever-busy fancy 
presented the grim and grinning images with which 
I supposed darkness to be peopled. 

I wish I had all those little books now. I would 
keep them as long as I live, and at death would 
bequeath them to a national Lyceum, or some other 
institution, to be kept as a schoolmaster keeps a 
pupil's first writing, as a specimen, or a mark to 
show what improvement has been made. Indeed, 
if improvement has been made in any thing, it has 
been in respect to children's books. When I com- 
pare the world of fact in which the ^' Little Philoso- 
phers " of the present day live, observe, and enjoy, 
with the visionary regions where I wandered, won- 
dered, believed, and trembled, I almost wish to be 
a child again, to know the pleasure of having 
earliest curiosity fed with fact, instead of fiction and 
folly, and to know so much about the great world, 
with so young a mind. 



AS IT WAS. 47 



CHAPTER VIII. 

GRAMMAR — YOUNG LADY's ACCIDENCE — MURRAY — PARS- 
ING — pope's essay. 

On my fifth summer, at the age of seven and a 
half, I commenced the study of grammar. The 
book generally used in our school by beginners, 
was called the Young Lady's Accidence. I had 
the honor of a new one. The Young Lady's Ac- 
cidence ! How often have I gazed on that last 
word, and wondered what it meant ! Even now, 
I cannot define it, though, of course, I have a guess 
at its meaning. Let me turn this very minute to 
that oracle of definitions, the venerable Webster : 
''A small book containing the rudiments of gram- 
mar." That is it, then. But what an intelligible 
and appropriate term for a little child's book ! The 
mysterious title, however, was most appropriate to 
the contents of the volume ; for they were all mys- 
terious, and that for years, to my poor understand- 
ing. 

Well, my first lesson was to get the Parts of 
Speech, as they are called. What a grand achieve- 
ment to engrave on my memory these ten separate 
and strange words ! With what ardor I took my 
lesson from the mistress, and trudged to my seat ! 



48 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

It was a new study, and it was the first day of the 
school, moreover, before the bashfiihiess occasioned 
by a strange teacher had subsided, and before the 
spirit of play had been excited. So there was 
nothing at the moment to divert me from the lofty 
enterprise. 

Reader, let your mind's eye peep into that old 
school-house. See that little boy in the second 
high seat from the front, in home-made and home- 
dyed pea-green* cotton jacket and trowsers, with a 
clean Monday morning collar turned out from his 
neck. His new book is before him on the bench, 
kept open by his left hand. His right supports his 
head on its palm, with the corresponding elbow 
pressed on the bench. His lips move, but at first 
very slowly. He goes over the whole lesson in a 
low whisper. He now looks off his book, and pro- 
nounces two or three of the first, — article, jioun, 
pronoun ; then just glances at the page, and goes 
on with two or three more. He at length repeats 
several words without looking. Finally, he goes 
through the long catalogue, with his eye fastened 
on vacancy. At length, how his lips flutter, and 
you hear the parts of speech whizzing from his 
tongue like feathered arrows ! A good simile that. 
Parts of speech — they are indeed arrows of thought, 
though as yet armed with no point, and shot at no 
mark. 

There, the rigmarole is accomplished. He starts 
up, and is at the mistress's side in a moment. 

* This was the name given by the housewives to the color. 



AS IT WAS. 



" Will you hear my lesson, ma'am ? " As she takes 
the book, he looks directly in her face, an 1 repeats 
the afore-mentioned words loudly and distinctly, as 
if there were no fear of failure. He has got as far 
as the adverb ; but now he hesitates, his eye drops, 
his lips are open ready for utterance, but the word 
does not come. He shuts them, he presses them 
hard together, he puts his finger to them, and there 
is a painful hiatus in his recitation, a disconnection, 
an anti to the very word he is after. " Conjunc- 
tion," says the mistress. The little hand leaves the 
lips, at the same time that an involuntary "Oh!" 
bursts out from them. He lifts his head and his 
eye, and repeats with spirit the delinquent word, 
and goes on without hesitation to the end of the 
lesson. ''Very well," says the teacher, or the hear- 
er of the school; for she rather listened to than in- 
structed her pupils. " Get so far for the next 
lesson." The child bows, whirls on his heel, and 
trips to his seat, mightily satisfied excepting with 
that one failure of memory, when that thundering 
word, conjunction^ refused to come at his will. 
But that word he never forgot again. The failure 
fastened it in his memory for ever. This pea-green 
boy was myself, the present historian of the scene. 
My next lesson lagged a little ; my third seemed 
quite dull ; my fourth I was two days in getting. 
At the end of the week, I thought that I could get 
along through the world very well without gram- 
mar, as my grandfather had done before me. But 
my mistress did not agree with me, and I was forced 
5 



50 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

to go on. I contrived, however, to make easy work 
of the study. I got frequent, but very short les- 
sons, only a single sentence at a time. This was 
easily committed to memory, and would stay on 
till I could run up and toss it oft' in recitation, after 
which it did not trouble me more. The recollec- 
tion of it puts me in mind of a little boy lugging in 
wood, a stick at a time. My teacher was so igno- 
rant of the philosophy of mind, that she did not 
know that this was not as good a way as any; and 
indeed, she praised me for my smartness. The 
consequence was, that, after I had been through the 
book, I could scarcely have repeated ten lines of it, 
excepting the very first and the very last lessons. 
Had it been ideas instead of words that had thus 
escaped from my mind, the case would have been 
different. As it was, the only matter of regret was, 
that I had been forming a bad habit, and had im- 
bibed an erroneous notion, to wit, that lessons were 
to be learned simply to be recited. 

The next winter this Accidence was committed, 
not to memory, but to oblivion ; for, on presenting it 
to the master the first day of the school, he told me 
it was old-fashioned and out of date, and I must 
have Murray's Abridgment. So Murray was pur- 
chased, and I commenced the study of grammar 
again, excited by the novelty of a new and clean 
and larger book. But this soon became even more 
dull and dry than its predecessor; for it was more 
than twice the size, and the end of it was at the 
most discouraging distance of months, if not of 



AS IT WAS. 51 

years. I got only half way through the verb this 
winter. The next summer I began the book again, 
and arrived at the end of the account of the parts 
of speech. The winter after, I went over the same 
ground again, and got through the rules of syntax, 
and felt that I had accomplished a great work. The 
next summer I reviewed the whole grammar ; for 
the mistress thought it necessary to have ''its most 
practical and important parts firmly fixed in the 
memory, before attempting the higher exercises of 
the study." On the third winter, I began to apply 
my supposed knowledge in the process of passings 
as it was termed by the master. The very pronun- 
ciation of this word shows how little the teacher 
exercised the power of independent thought. He 
had been accustomed to hear parse called pass ; 
and, though the least reflection would have told 
him it was not correct, that reflection came not, and 
for years the grammarians of our district school 
passed. However, it was rightly so called. It 
was passing, as said exercise was performed ; pass- 
ing over, by, around, away, from the science of 
grammar, without coming near it, or at least with- 
out entering into it with much understanding of its 
nature. Mode, tense, case, government and agree- 
ment, were ever flying from our tongues, to be 
sure ; but their meaning was as much a mystery as 
the hocus pocus of a juggler. 

At first we parsed in simple prose, but soon en- 
tered on poetry. Poetry — a thing which to our ap- 
prehension difl*ered from prose in this only, that 



52 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



each line began with a capital letter, and ended 
usually with a word sounding like another word at 
the end of the adjoining line. But, unskilled as we 
all generally were in the art of parsing, sonfje of us 
came to think ourselves wonderfully acute and dex- 
terous nevertheless. When we perceived the mas- 
ter himself to be in doubt and perplexity, then we 
felt ourselves on a level with him, and ventured to 
oppose our guess to his. And if he appeared a 
dunce extraordinary, as was sometimes the case, we 
used to put ourselves into {\\q potential mood pretty 
often, as we knew that our teacher could never as- 
sume the iniperative on this subject. 

The fact is, neither we nor the teacher entered 
into the writer's meaning. The general plan of the 
work was not surveyed, nor the particular sense of 
separate passages examined. We could not do it, 
perhaps, from the want of maturity of mind ; the 
teacher did not, because he had never been accus- 
tomed to any thing of the kind in his own educa- 
tion ; and it never occurred to him that he could 
deviate from the track, or improve upon the meth- 
ods of those who taught him. Pope's Essay on 
Man was the parsing manual used by the most ad- 
vanced. No wonder, then, that pupil and peda- 
gogue so often got bewildered and lost in a world 
of thought like this ; for, however well ordered a 
creation it might be, it was scarcely better than a 
chaos to them. 

In closing, I ought to remark, that all our teach- 
ers were not thus ignorant of grammar, although 



AS IT WAS. 



53 



they did not perhaps take the best way to teach it. 
In speaking thus of this department of study, and 
also of others, I have reference to the more general 
character of schoolmasters and schools. 



64 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE PARTICULAR MASTER VARIOUS METHODS OF PUN- 
ISHMENT. 

I HAVE given some account of my first winter at 
school. Of my second, third, and fourth, I have 
nothing of importance to say. The routine was 
the same in each. The teachers were remarkable 
for nothing in particular : if they were, I have too 
indistinct a remembrance of their characters to por- 
tray them now ; so I will pass them by, and de- 
scribe the teacher of my fifth. 

He was called the particula?^ master. The 
scholars in speaking of him, would say, " He is so 
particular." The first morning of the school, he 
read us a long list of regulations to be observed in 
school, and out. " There are more rules than you 
could shake a stick at before your arm would 
ache," said some one. '' And if the master should 
shake a stick at every one who should disobey 
them, he would not find time to do much else," 
•said another. Indeed, it proved to be so. Half the 
time was spent in calling up scholars for little mis- 
demeanors, trying to make them confess their faults, 
and promise stricter obedience, or in devising pun- 
ishments and inflicting them. Almost every meth- 



AS IT WAS. 55 

od was tried that was ever suggested to the brain of 
pedagogue. Some were feruled on the hand ; 
some were whipped with a rod on the bade ; some 
were compelled to hold out, at arm's length, the 
largest book which could be found, or a great lead- 
en inkstand, till muscle and nerve, bone and mar- 
row, were tortured with the continued exertion. If 
the arm bent or inclined from the horizontal level, 
it was forced back again by a knock of the ruler on 
the elbow. I well recollect that one poor fellow 
forgot his suffering by fainting quite away. This 
lingering punishment was more befitting the ven- 
geance of a savage, than the corrective efforts of a 
teacher of the young in civilized life. 

He had recourse to another method, almost, per- 
haps quite, as barbarous. Tt was standing in a 
stooping posture, with the finger on the head of a 
nail in the floor. It was a position not particularly 
favorable to health of body or soundness of mind ; 
the head being brought about as low as the knees, 
the blood rushing to it, and pressing unnaturally on 
the veins, often caused a dull pain, and a stagger- 
ing dizziness. That man's judgment or mercy 
must have been topsy-turvy also, who first set the 
example of such an infliction on those whose pro- 
gress in knowledge depended somewhat on their 
being kept right end upward. 

The above punishments were sometimes render- 
ed doubly painful by their taking place directly in 
front of the enormous fire, so that the pitiable cul- 
prit was roasted as well as racked. Another mode 



56 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

of punishment — an anti-whispering process — was 
setting the jaws at a painful distance apart, by in- 
serting a chip perpendicularly between the teeth. 
Then we occasionally had our hair pulled, our 
noses tweaked, our ears pinched and boxed, or 
snapped, perhaps, with India-rubber; this last the 
perfection of ear-tingling operations. There were 
minor penalties, moreover, for minor faults. The 
uneasy urchins were clapped into the closet, thrust 
under the desk, or perched on its top. Boys were 
made to sit in the girls' seats, amusing the school 
with their grinning awkwardness ; and girls were 
obliged to sit on the masculine side of the aisle, 
with crimsoned necks, and faces buried in their 
aprons. 

But I have dwelt long enough on the various 
penalties of the numerous violations of Master Par- 
ticular's many orders. After all, he did not keep 
an orderly school. The cause of the mischief was, 
he was variable. He wanted that persevering firm- 
ness and uniformity which alone can insure suc- 
cess. He had so many regulations, that he could 
not stop at all times to notice the transgressions of 
them. The scholars, not knowing with certainty 
what to expect, dared to run the risk of disobe- 
dience. The consequence of this procedure on the 
part of the ruler and the ruled was, that the school 
became uncommonly riotous before the close of the 
season. The larger scholars soon broke over all re- 
straint ; but the little ones were narrowly watched 
and restricted somewhat longer. But these gradu- 



AS IT WAS. 57 

ally grew unaiindfLil of the unstable authority, and 
finally contemned it with almost insolent effrontery, 
unless the master's temper-kindled eye was fixed 
directly and menacingly upon them. Thus the 
many regulations were like so many cobwebs, 
through which the great flies would break at once, 
and so tear and disorder the net that it would not 
hold even the little ones, or at all answer the purpose 
for which it was spun. 

I would not have it understood that this master 
was singular in his punishments; for such methods 
of correcting offenders have been in use time out of 
mind. He was distinguished only for resorting to 
them more frequently than any other instructor 
within my own observation. The truth is, that it 
seemed to be the prevailing opinion both among 
teachers and parents, that boys and girls would 
play and be mischievous at any rate, and that con- 
sequently masters Qiiiist punish in some way or 
other. It was a matter of course ; nothing better 
was expected. 



58 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER X. 

HOW THEY USED TO READ IN THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE 
IN DISTRICT NO. V. 

In this description of the District School, as it 
was, that frequent and important exercise, Reading, 
must not be omitted, — Reading as it was. Ad- 
vance, then, ye readers of the Old School-house, 
and let us witness your performances. 

We will suppose it is the first day of the school. 
*' Come and read," says the mistress to a little flaxen 
headed creature of doubtful gender ; for the child 
is in petticoats, and sits on the female side, as close 
as possible to a guardian sister. But then those 
coarser features, tanned complexion, and close- 
clipped hair, with other minutice of aspect, are 
somewhat contradictory to the feminine dress. 
"Come and read." It is the first time that this he 
or she was ever inside of a school-house, and in the 
presence of a school-ma'am, according to recollec- 
tion, and the order is heard with shrinking timidity. 
But the sister whispers an encouraging word, and 
helps " tot " down from the seat, who creeps out 
into the aisle, and hesitates along down to the 
teacher, biting his fingers, or scratching his head, 
perhaps both, to relieve the embarrassment of the 



AS IT WAS. 59 

novel situation. ''What is your name, dear?" 
" Tholomon Iclierthon^^^ lisps the now-discovered he, 
in a phlegm-choked voice, scarce above a whisper. 
'' Put your hands down by your side, Solomon, 
and make a bow." He obeys, if a short and hasty 
jerk of the head is a bow. The alphabetical page 
of the spelling-book is presented, and he is asked, 
'' What's that ? " But he cannot tell. He is but 
two years and a half old, and has been sent to 
schooU to relieve his mother from trouble, rather 
than to learn. No one at home has yet shown or 
named a letter to him. He has never had even that 
celebrated character, round O, pointed out to his 
notice. It was an older beginner, most probably, 
who, being asked a similar question about the first 
letter of the alphabet, replied, " I know him by 
sight, but can't tell him by name," But our name- 
sake of the wise man does not know the gentleman 
even by sight, nor any of his twenty-five com- 
panions. 

Solomon Richardson has at length said A, B, C, 
for the first time in his life. He has read. "That's 
a nice boy ; make another bow, and go to your 
seat." He gives another jerk of the head, and 
whirls on his heel, and trots back to his seat, meet- 
ing the congratulatory smile of his sister with a 
satisfied grin, which, put into language would be, 
"There, I've read, ha'nt I ?" 

The little chit, at first so timid, and almost in- 
audible in enunciation, in a few days becomes 
accustomed to the place and the exercise ; and, in 



69 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

obedience to the " Speak up loud, that's a good 
boy," he soon pipes off A-er, B-er, C-er, &c., with 
a far-ringing shrilhiess, tliat vies even with chanti- 
cleer himself. Solomon went all the pleasant days 
of the first summer, and nearly every day of the 
next, before he knew all the letters by sight, or 
could call them by name. Strange that it should 
take so long to become acquainted with these 
twenty-six characters, when, in a month's time, the 
same child becomes familiar with the forms and the 
names of hundreds of objects in nature around, or 
in use about his father's house, shop, or farm ! 
Not so very strange either, if we only reflect a 
moment. Take a child into a party of twenty-six 
persons, all strangers, and lead him from one to the 
other as fast as his little feet can patter, telling him 
their respective names, all in less than ten minutes ; 
do this four times a day even, and you would not 
be surprised if he should be weeks at least, if not 
months, in learning to designate them all by their 
names. Is it any matter of surprise, then, that the 
child should be so long in becoming acquainted 
with the alphabetical party, when he is introduced 
to them precisely in the manner above described ? 
Then, these are not of different heights, complex- 
ions, dresses, motions, and tones of voice, as a living 
company have. But there they stand in an unal- 
terable line, all in the same complexions and dress ; 
all just so tall, just so motionless and mute and 
uninteresting, and, of course, the most unremem- 
berable figures in the world. No wonder that some 



AS IT WAS. 61 

should go to school, and ''sit on a bench, and say 
A B C," as a little girl said, for a whole year, and 
still find themselves strangers to some of the sable 
company, even then. Our little reader is permitted 
at length to turn a leaf, and he finds himself in the 
region of the Abs, — an expanse of little syllables, 
making me, who am given to comparisons, think 
of an extensive plain whereon there is no tree or 
shrub or plant, or anything else inviting to the eye, 
and nothing but little stones, stones, stones, all 
about the same size. And what must the poor 
little learner do here ? Why, he must hop from 
cobble to cobble, if I may so call a6, eh^ ib, as fast 
as he possibly can, naming each one, after the voice 
of the teacher, as he hurries along. And this must 
be kept up until he can denominate each lifeless 
and uninteresting object on the face of the desert. 

After more or less months, the weary novice 
ceases to be an Ab-ite. He is next put into whole 
words of one syllable, arranged in columns. The 
first word we read in Perry that conveyed anything 
like an idea, was the first one in the first column, — 
the word ache : ay, we did not easily forget what 
this meant, when once informed ; the corresponding 
idea, or rather feeling, was so often in our con- 
sciousness. Ache, — a very appropriate term with 
which to begin a course of education so abounding 
in pains of body and of mind. 

After five pages of this perpendicular reading, if 
I may so call it, we entered on the horizontal, that 
is, on words arranged in sentences and paragraphs,. 
6 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



This was reading in good earnest, as grown-up 
folks did, and something with which tiny child- 
hood would be very naturally puffed up. "Easy 
Lessons " was the title of about a dozen separate 
chapters, scattered at intervals among the numerous 
spelling columns, like brambly openings here and 
there amid the tall forest. Easy lessons, because 
they consisted mostly of little monosyllabic words, 
easy to be pronounced. But they were not easy as 
it regards being understood. They were made up 
of abstract moral sentences, presenting but a very 
faint meaning to the child, if any at all. Their par- 
ticular application to his own conduct he would not 
perceive, of course, without help; and this it 
scarcely ever entered the head or the heart of the 
teacher to afford. 

In the course of summers, how many I forget, 
we arrived at the most manly and dignified reading 
the illustrious Perry had prepared for us. It was 
entitled "Moral Tales and Fables." In these latter, 
beasts and birds talked like men; and strange sort 
of folks, called Jupiter, Mercury, and Juno, were 
pictured as sitting up in the clouds, and talking 
with men and animals on earth, or as down among 
them doing very unearthly things. To quote lan- 
guage in common use, we kind o' believed it all to 
he triie^ and yet we kind o' didnH. As for the 
" moral " at the end, teachers never dreamed of 
attracting our attention to it. Indeed, we had no 
other idea of all these Easy Lessons, Tales, and 
Fables, than that they were to be syllabled from 



AS IT WAS. 63 

the tongue in the task of reading. That they 
were to sink into the heart, and make us belter in 
life, never occurred to our simple understandings. 

Among all the rest were five pieces of poetry, — 
charming stuff to read ; the words would come 
along one after another so easily, and the lines 
would jingle so pleasantly together at the end, 
tickling the ear like two beads in a rattle. " Oh! 
give us poetry to read, of all things," we thought. 

We generally passed directly from the spelling- 
book to the reading-book of the first class, although 
we were ranked the second class still. Or perhaps 
we took a book which had been formerly used by 
the first class ; for a new reading-book was gen- 
erally introduced once in a few years in compliance 
with the earnest recommendation of the temporary 
teacher. While the first class were in Scott's Les- 
sons, we of the second were pursuing their tracks, 
not altogether understandingly, through Adams's 
Understanding Pleader. When a new master per- 
suaded them into Murray, then we were admitted 
into Scott. 

The principal requisites in reading, in these days, 
were to read fast, mind the "stops and marks," and 
speak up loud. As for suiting the tone to the mean- 
ing, no such thing was dreamed of, in our school at 
least. As much emphasis was laid on an insignifi- 
cant of or and as on the most important word in 
the piece. But no wonder we did not know how 
to vary our tones, for we did not always know the 
meaning of the words, or enter into the general 



64 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

spirit of the composition. This was very frequently, 
indeed ahiiost alvvaj^s, the case with the majority 
even of the first class. Parliamentary prose and 
Miltonic verse were just about as good as Greek for 
the purpose of modulating the voice according to 
meaning. It scarcely ever entered the heads of our 
teachers to question us about the ideas hidden in 
the great, long words and spacious sentences. It is 
possible that they did not always discover it them- 
selves. "Speak up there, and not read like a mouse 
in a cheese; and mind your stops," — such were the 
principal directions respecting the important art of 
elocution. Important it was most certainly consid- 
ered; for each class must read twice in the fore- 
noon, and the same in the afternoon, from a quarter 
to half an hour each time, according to the size of 
the class. Had they read but once or twice, and 
but little at a time, and this with nice and very 
•profitable attention to tone and sense, parents would 
have thought the master most miserably deficient 
in duty, and their children cheated out of their 
rights, notwithstanding the time thus saved should 
be most assiduously devoted to other all-important 
branches of education. 

It ought not to be omitted, that the Bible, partic- 
ularly the New Testament, was the reading twice a 
day, generally, for all the classes adequate to words 
of more than one syllable. It was the only read- 
ing of several of the younger classes under some 
teachers. On this practice I shall make but a sin- 
gle remark. As far as my own experience and 



AS IT WAS. 65 

observation extended, reverence for the sacred 
volume was not deepened by this constant but 
exceedingly careless use. 

But what a long and perhaps tedious chapter on 
this subject of reading ! I had no idea of it when 
I began. Yet I have not put down the half that I 
could. These early impressions, when once started 
from their recesses, how they will teem forth ! 



66 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XI 



now THEY USED TO SPELL. 



There, the class have read ; but they have 
something else to do before they take their seats. 
"Shut your books," says he who has been hearing 
them read. What makes this row of little counte- 
nances brighten up so suddenly, especially the 
upper end of it ? What wooden faces and leaden 
eyes, two minutes ago ! The reading was nothing 
to them, — those select sentences and maxims in 
Perry's spelling-book which are tucked in between 
the fables. It is all as dull as a dirge to those life- 
loving boys and girls. They almost drowsed while 
they stood up in their places. But they are fully 
awake now. They are going to spell. But this 
in itself is the driest exercise to prepare for, and 
the driest to perform, of the whole round. The 
child cares no more in his heart about the 
arrangement of vowels and consonants in the 
orthography of words, than he does how many 
chips lie one above another at the school-house 
wood-pile. But he does care, whether he is at the 
head or foot of his class; whether the money dan- 
gles from his own neck or another's. This is 
the secret of the interest in spelling. Emulation 



AS IT WAS. 67 

is awakened, ambition roused. There is something 
like the tug of strength in the wrestle, something of 
the alternation of hope and fear in a game of 
chance. There has been a special preparation for 
the trial. Observe this class any day, half an hour 
before they are called up to read. What a flitting 
from top to bottom of the spelling column, and 
what a flutter of lips and hissing of utterance ! 
Now the eye twinkles on the page to catch a word, 
and now it is fixed on the empty air, while the 
orthography is syllabled over and over again in 
mind, until at length it is syllabled on the memory. 
But the time of trial has come; they have only to 
read first. " The third class may come and read.iL. 
''O dear, I haven't got my spelling lesson," mutters 
Charlotte to herself. She has just begun the art of 
writing this winter, and she lingered a little too long 
at her hooks and trammels. The lesson seems 
to her to have as many again hard words in it as 
common. What a flutter she is in ! She got up 
above George in the forenoon, and she would not 
get down again for any thing. She is as slow in 
coming from her seat as she possibly can be and 
keep moving. She makes a chink in her book with 
her finger, and every now and then, during the read- 
ing exercise, steals a glance at a difficult word. 

But the reading is over, and what a brightening 
up, as was said before, with the exception, perhaps, 
of two or three idle or stupid boys at that less hon- 
orable extremity of the class called the foot ! That 
boy at the head — no, it was a boy ; but Harriet has 



68 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

at length got above him ; and, when girls once get 
to the head, get them away from it if you can. 
Once put the "pride of place " into their hearts, 
and how they will queen it ! Then they are more 
sensitive regarding any thing that might lower 
them in the eyes of others, and seem the least like 
disgrace. I have known a little girl to cry the half 
of one day, and look melancholy the whole of the 
next, on losing her place at the head. Girls are 
more likely to arrive at and keep the first place in 
the class, in consequence of a little more help from 
mother nature than boys get. I believe that they 
generally have a memory more fitted for catching 
and holding words and other signs addressed to the 
eye, than the other sex. That girl at the head has 
studied her spelling lesson, until she is as confident 
of every word as the unerring Perry himself. She 
can spell every word in the column, in the order it 
stands, without the master's '< putting it out," she 
has been over it so many times. " Now, Mr. 
James, get up again if you can," thinks Harriet. 
I pity you, poor girl; for James has an ally that 
will blow over your proud castle in the air. Old 
Boreas, the king of the winds, will order out a 
snow-storm by and by, to block up the roads, so 
that none but booted and weather-proof males can 
get to school ; and you, Miss, must lose a day or 
two, and then find yourself at the foot with those 
blockhead boys who always abide there. But let it 
not be thought that all those foot lads are deficient 
in intellect. Look at them when the master's back 



AS IT WAS. 69 

is turned, and you will see mischievous ingenuity 
enough to convince you that they might surpass 
even James and Harriet, had some other facuhies 
been called into exercise besides the mere memory 
of verbalities. 

The most extraordinary spelling, and indeed 
reading machine, in our school, was a boy whom I 
shall call iMemorus Wordwell. He was mighty and 
wonderful in the acquisition and remembrance of 
words, — of signs without the ideas signified. The 
alphabet he acquired at home before he was two 
years old. What exultation of parents, what ex- 
clamation from admiring visitors ! " There was 
never any thing like it." He had almost accom- 
plished his Abs before hewas thought old enough 
for school. At an earlier age than usual, however, 
he was sent ; and then he went from Ache to Abom- 
ination in half the summers and winters it took the 
rest of us to go over the same space. Astonishing 
how quickly he mastered column after column, sec- 
tion after section, of gjjstinate orthographies. Those 
merrtial terms I have just used, together with our 
hero's celerity, put me in mind of Ca3sar. So I 
will quote him. Memorus might have said in re- 
spect to the host of the spelling-book, " I came, I 
saw, I conquered." He generally stood at the head 
of a class, each one of whom was two years his 
elder. Poor creatures ! they studied hard, some of 
them, but it did no good : Memorus Wordwell was 
born to be above them, as some men are said to 
have been '' born to command." At the public 



70 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

examination of his first winter, the people of the 
district, and even the minister, thought it marvel- 
ous that such monstrous great words should be 
mastered by "such a leetle mite of a boy !" Me- 
morus was mighty also in saying those after spell- 
ing matters — the Key, the Abbreviations, the Punc- 
tuation, he. These things w^ere deemed of great 
account to be laid up in remembrance, although 
they were all very imperfectly understood, and 
some of them not understood at all. 

Punctuation — how many hours, days, and even 
weeks, have I tugged away to lift, as it were, to 
roll up into the store-house of my memory, the 
many long, heavy sentences comprehended under 
this title ! Only survey (we use this word when 
speaking of considerable space and bulk) — only 
survey the first sentence, a transcript of which I 
will endeavor to locate in these narrow bounds. I 
would have my readers of the rising generation 
know what mighty labors we little creatures of five, 
six, and seven years old were set to perform : — 

" Punctuation is the art of pointing, or of divid- 
ing a discourse into periods by points, express- 
ing the pauses to be made in the reading thereof, 
and regulating the cadence or elevation of the 
voice." 

There, I have labored weeks on that ; for I 
always had the lamentable defect of mind not to be 
able to commit to memory what I did not under- 
stand. My teachers never aided me with the least 
explanation of the above-copied sentence, nor of 



AS IT WAS. 71 

Other reading of a similar character, which was 
likewise to be committed to memory. But this and 
all was nothing, as it were, to Memorus Wordwell. 
He was a very Hercules in this wilderness of 
words. 

Master Wordwell was a remarkable reader too. 
He could rattle off a word as extensive as the name 
of a Russian noble, when he was but five years old, 
as easily as the schoolmaster liimself. " He can 
read in the hardest chapters of the Testament as 
fast agin as I can," said his mother. '' I never did 
see nothin beat it," exclaimed his father; "he 
speaks up as loud as a minister.-' But I have said 
enough about this prodigy. I have said thus much, 
because, although he was thought so surpassingly 
bright, he was the most decided ninny in the 
school. The fact is, he did not know what the 
sounds he uttered meant. It never entered his 
head, nor the heads of his parents and most of his 
teachers, that words and sentences were written, 
and should be read, only to be understood. He 
lost some of his reputation, however, when he grew 
up towards twenty-one, and it was found that 
nuiaherSj in more senses than one, were far above 
him in arithmetic. 

One little anecdote about Memorus Wordwell 
before we let him go, and this long chapter shall be 
no longer. 

It happened one day that the " cut and split " 
for the fire fell short, and Jonas Patch was out 
wielding the axe in school time. He had been at 



72 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

work about half an hour, when Memorus, who was 
perceived to have less to do than the rest, was sent 
out to take his place. He was about ten years old, 
and four years younger than Jonas. " Memorus, 
you may go out and spell Jonas." Our hero did not 
think of the Yankee seiise in which the master 
used the word spell : indeed he had never attached 
but one meaning to it, whenever it was used with 
reference to himself. He supposed the master was 
granting him a ride extraordinary on his favorite 
hobby. So he put his spelling-book under his arm, 
and was out at the wood-pile with the speed of a 
boy rushing to play. 

" Ye got yer spellin lesson, Jonas ? " was his first 
salutation. " Have n't looked at it yit," was the 
reply. " I mean to cut up this plaguy great log, 
spellin or no spellin, before I go in. I had as lieve 
keep warm here choppin wood, as freeze up there 
in that tarnal cold back seat." " Well, the master 
sent me out to hear you spell." ''Did he? well, 
put out the words, and I'll spell." Memorus being 
so distinguished a speller, Jonas did not doubt but 
that he was really sent out on this errand. So our 
deputy spelling-master mounted the • top of the 
wood-pile, just in front of Jonas, to put out words 
to his temporary pupil, who still kept on putting 
out chips. 

"Do you know where the lesson begins, Jonas? " 
''No, I don't; but I 'spose I shall find out now." 
"Well, here 'tis." (They both belonged to the 
same class.) " Spell A-bom-i-na-tion." Jonas spells. 



AS IT WAS. 



A-b-o-m bom a-bom (in the mean time up goes the 
axe high in air), i a-bom-i (down it goes again 
chuck into the wood) n-a na a-bom-i-na (up it goes 
again) t-i-o-n tion, a-bom-i-na-tion; chuck the axe 
goes again, and at the same time out flies a furious 
chip, and hits Memorus on the nose. At this mo- 
ment the master appeared just at the corner of the 
school-house, with one foot still on the threshold. 
"Jonas, why don't you come in? didn't I send 
Memorus out to spell you?" '-Yes, sir, and he 
has been spelling me ; how could I come in if he 
spelt me here ? " At this the master's eye caught 
Memorus perched up on the top-stick, with his book 
open upon his lap, rubbing his nose, and just in the 
act of putting out the next .word of the column. 
Ac-com-mo-da-tion, pronounced Memorus in a bro- 
ken but louder voice than before ; for he had caught 
a glimpse of the master, and he wished to let him 
know that he was doing his duty. This was too 
much for the master's gravity. He perceived the 
mistake, and, without saying more, wheeled back 
into the school- room, almost bursting with the most 
tumultuous laugh he ever tried to suppress. The 
scholars wondered at his looks, and grinned in 
sympathy. But in a few minutes Jonas came in,. 
followed by Memorus with his spelling-book, who 
exclaimed, "I have heard him spell clean through 
the whole lesson, and he didn't spell hardly none of 
'em right." The master could hold in no longer, 
^ and the scholars perceived the blunder, and there- 
was one simultaneous roar from pedagogue and? 
7 



74 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

pupils ; the scholars laughing twice as loud and 
uproarously in consequence of being permitted to 
laugh in school-time, and to do it with the accom- 
paniment of the master. 



AS IT WAS. 75 



CHAPTER XII. 

MR. SPOUTSOUND, THE SPEAKING MASTER THE EXHIBI- 
TION. 

Now comes winter the sixth, of my district 
education. Our master was as insignificant a per- 
sonage as is often met with beyond the age of 
twenty-one. He ought to have been pedagogue ia 
that land of littleness, Lilliput. Our great fellows 
of the back seat might have tossed him out of the 
window from the palm of the hand. But he pos- 
sessed certain qualifications, and pursued such a 
course that he was permitted to retain the magiste- 
rial seat through his term, and indeed was quite 
popular on the whole. 

He was as remarkable for the loudness and com- 
pass of his voice, as for the dirainutiveness of his 
material dimensions. How such a body of sound 
could proceed from so bodiless an existence, was a 
marvel. It seemed as unnatural as that a tremen- 
dous thunder-clap should burst from a speck of 
cloud in the sky. He generally sat with the sing- 
ers on the Sabbath, and drowned the feebler voices 
with the inundation of his bass. 

But it was not with his tuneful powers alone, 
that he "astonished the natives." He was imagined 



76 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

to possess great gifts of oratory likewise. " What 
a. pity it is that he had not been a minister! " was 
said. It was by his endowments and taste in this 
respect that he made himself particularly memora- 
ble in our school. Mr. Spoutsound had been one 
quarter, to an academy where declamation was a 
weekly exercise. Finding in this, ample scope for 
his vocal extraordinariness (a long-winded word, to 
be sure, but so appropriate), he became an enthusi- 
astic votary to the Ciceronian art. 7^he principal 
qualification of an orator in his view, was height, 
depth, and breadth of utterance, — quantity of sound. 
Of course, he fancied himself a very lion in oratory. 
Indeed, as far as roaring would go, he was a lion. 
This gentleman introduced declamation, or the speak- 
ing of pieces, as it was called, into our school. He 
considered "speaking of the utmost consequence in 
this country, as any boy might be called to a seat 
in the legislature, perhaps, in the course of things." 
It was a novelty to the scholars, and they entered 
with their whole souls into the matter. It was a 
pleasant relief to the dullness of the old-fashioned 
routine. 

What a rummaging of books, pamphlets, and 
newspapers now took place, to find pieces to speak! 
The American Preceptor, the Columbian Orator, 
the Art of Reading, Scott's Elocution, Webster's 
Third Part, and I know not how many other 
ancients, were taken down from their dusty retire- 
ment at home, for the sake of the specimens 
of eloquence they afforded. Those pieces were 



AS IT WAS. 77 

deemed best by iis grandsons of the Revolutionists, 
which most abounded in those glorious words, 
Freedom, Liberty, Independence, and other spirit- 
kindling names and phrases, that might be men- 
tioned. Another recommendation was high-flown 
language, and especially words that were long and 
sonorous, such as would roll thunderingly from the 
tongue. For, like our district professor, we had the 
impression that noise was the most important qual- 
ity in eloquence. The first, the second, and the 
third requisite was the same ; it was noise, noise, 
noise. Action, however, or gesticulation, was not 
omitted. This was considered the next qualifica- 
tion of a good orator. So there was the most 
vehement swinging of arms, shaking of fists, and 
waving of palms. That occasional motion of the 
limb and force of voice, called emphasis, was not a 
characteristic of our eloquence, or rather it was all 
emphasis. Our utterance was something like the 
continuous roar of a swollen brook over a mill-dam, 
and our action like the unintermitted whirling and 
clapping of adjacent machinery. 

We tried our talent in the dramatic way like- 
wise. There were numerous extracts from dramatic 
compositions scattered through the various reading 
books we had mustered. These dialogistic perform- 
ances were even more interesting than our speech- 
ifying in the semblance of lawyers and legislators. 
We more easily acquired an aptitude for this exer- 
cise, as it was somewhat like that every-day affair, 
conversation. In this we were brought face to face, 
7* 



78 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

voice to voice, with each other, and our social sym- 
pathies were kindled into glow. We talked with, 
as well as at, folks. Then the female portion of 
the school could lake a part in the performance ; 
and who does not know that dialoguing, as well as 
dancing, has twice the zest with a female partner? 
The whole school, with the exception of the very 
least perhaps, were engaged, indeed absorbed, in this 
novel branch of education introduced by Mr. Spout- 
■sound. Some, who had not got out of their Abs, 
were taught, by admiring fathers and mothers at 
home, little pieces by rote, and made to screech 
them out with most ear-splitting execution. One 
lad in this way committed to memory that 
famous piece of self-puffery beginning with the 
lines, — 

** You'd scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage." 

Memorus Wordwell committed to memory and 
parroted forth that famous speech of Pitt, in which 
he so eloquently replies to the charge of being a 
young man. 

Cicero at Athens was not more assiduous in 
seeking the " immense and the infinite " in elo- 
quence, than we were in seeking the great in 
speaking. Besides half an hour of daily school- 
time set apart for the exercise, under the immediate 
direction and exemplification of the master, our 
noonings were devoted to the same, as far as the 
young's ruling passion, the love of play, would 



AS IT WAS. 79 

permit. And on the way to and from school, the 
pleasure of dialogue would compete with that of 
dousing each other into the snow. We even 
'' spoke " while doing our night and morning work 
at home. A boy might be seen at the wood-pile 
hacking at a log and a dialogue by turns. Or 
perha])S, after dispensing the fodder to the ten- 
ants of the barn, he would mount a half-cleared 
scaffold, and out-bellow the wondering beeves 
below. 

As the school drew towards a close, Mr. Spout- 
sound proposed to have an exhibition in addition to 
the usual examination, on the last day, or rather the 
evening of it. Our oratorical gifts and accomplish- 
ments must be publicly displayed ; which is next to 
publicly using them in the important affairs of the 
town, the state, or the country. 

" An exhibition ! — I want to know ! can it be ? " 
There had never been anything like it in the dis- 
trict before, nor indeed in the town. Such a thing 
had scarcely been heard of, except by some one 
whose uncle or cousin had been to the academy or 
to college. The people of the district were wide 
awake. The younger portion of them could hardly 
sleep nights. 

The scholars are requested to select the pieces 
they would prefer to speak, whether speeches or 
dialogues ; and to arrange among themselves who 
should be fellow-partners in the dramatical per- 
formances. The master, however, retained the 
right of veto on their choice. Now, what a rustle 



80 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

of leaves and flutter of lips in school-hours, and 
noisier flapping of books and clatter of tongues at 
noon, in settling who shall have which, and who 
speak with whom. At length all is arranged, and 
mostly to the minds of all. Then, for a week or 
two before the final consummation of things elo- 
quent, it was nothing but rehearsal. No pains 
were spared by any one that he might be perfect in 
the recollection and flourishing-ofF of his part. 
Dialoguists were grouped together in every corner. 
There was a buzz in the back seat, a hum in the 
closet, a screech in the entry, and the very clnnax 
of vociferation in the spelling-floor. Here the solos 
(if I may borrow a term from music) were rehearsed 
under the immediate criticism of Mr. Spoutsound, 
whose chief delight was in forensic and parliamen- 
tary eloquence. The old school-house was a little 
Babel in the confusion of tongues. 

The expected day at length arrives. There must 
be, of course, the usual examination in the after- 
noon. But nobody attended this but the minister, 
and the committee who engaged the master. The 
people of the district all intended to be at the ex- 
hibition in the evening, and examination was "just 
nothing at all" with that in prospect. And, in fact, 
it was just nothing at all ; for the '^ ruling passion " 
had swallowed up very much of the time that 
should have been devoted to the really important 
branches of education. 

After the finishing of the school, a stage was 
erected at the end of the spelling-floor, next to the 



AS IT WAS. 81 

desk and the closet. It was hung round with 
checked bed-blankets, in the semblance of theatrical 
curtains, to conceal any preparations that might be 
necessary between the pieces. 

The exhibition Avas to commence at half past 
six. Before that time, the old school-house was 
crowded to the utmost of its capacity for containing, 
by the people not only of our district, but of other 
parts of the town. The children were wedged 
into chinks too narrow for the admission of the 
grown-up. Never were a multitude of living bodies 
more completely compressed and amalgamated into 
one continuous mass. 

On the front writing-bench, just before the stage, 
and facing the audience, sat the four first, and some 
of the most interesting performers on the occasion, 
viz.; players on the clarionet, violin, bass-viol, and 
bassoon. But they of the bow were sorely troubled 
at first. Time and space go together with them, 
you know. They cannot keep the first without 
possessing the latter. As they sat, their semibreves 
were all shortened into minims, indeed into crotch- 
ets, for lack of elbow-room. At length the violinist 
stood up straight on the writing-bench, so as to 
have an unimpeded stretch in the empty air, above 
the thicket of heads. His fellow-sufferer then con- 
trived to stand so that his long bow could sweep 
freely between the steady heads of two broad- 
shouldered men, out of danger from joggling boys. 
This band discoursed what was to our ears most 
eloquent music, as a prelude to the musical elo- 



82 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

quence which was to be the chief entertainment of 
the occasion. They played intermediately also, 
and gave the winding-off flourish of sound. 

At forty minutes past six, the curtain rose ; that 
is, the bed-blankets were pulled aside. There stood 
Mr. Spoutsound on the stage, in all the pomp possi- 
ble to diminutiveness. He advanced two steps, and 
bowed as profoundly from height to depth as his 
brevity of stature would admit. He then opened 
the exhibition by speaking a poetical piece called a 
Prologue, which he found in one of the old reading- 
books. As this was originally composed as an in- 
troduction to a stage performance, it was thought 
appropriate on this occasion. Mr. Spoutsound now 
put forth in all the plenitude of his utterance. It 
seemed a vocal cataract, all torrent, thunder, and 
froth. But it wanted room, — an abyss to empty 
into ; and all it had was the remnant of space let^t 
in our little school-room. A few of the audience 
were overwhelmed with the pour and rush and 
roar of the pent-up noise, and the rest with admira- 
tion, yea, astonishment, that the schoolmaster " could 
speak so.^^ 

He ceased — it was all as still as if every other 
voice had died of envy. He bowed — there was 
then a general breathing, as if the vocals were just 
coming to life again. He sat down on a chair 
placed on the stage ; then there was one general 
buzz, above which arose, here and there, a living 
and loud voice. Above this, soon arose the exalta- 
tion of the orator's favorite march ; for he deemed 



AS IT WAS. 83 

it proper that his own performance should be sep- 
arated from those of his pupils by some length and 
loftiness of music. 

Now the exhibition commenced in good earnest. 
The dramatists dressed in costumes according to 
the character to be sustained, as far as all the old and 
odd dresses that could be mustered up would enable 
them to do so. The district, and indeed the town, 
had been ransacked for revolutionary coats and 
cocked-up hats and other grand-fatherly and grand- 
motherly attire. 

The people present were quite as much amused 
with the spectacle as with the speaking. To see 
the old fashions on the young folks, and to see the 
young folks personating characters so entirely oppo- 
site to their own ; for instance, the slim, pale-faced 
youth, by the aid of stuffing, looking, and acting 
the fat old wine-bibber ; the blooming girl of seven- 
teen, putting on the cap, the kerchief, and the char- 
acter of seventy-five, &-c. — all this was ludicrously 
strange. A very refined taste might have observed 
other things that were strangely ludicrous in the 
elocution and gesticulation of these disciples of Mr. 
Spoutsound ; but most of the company present 
were so fortunate as to perceive no bad taste to mar 
their enjoyment. 

The little boy of five spoke the little piece — 

" You'd scarce expect one of my age," &c. 

I recollect another line of the piece which has 
become singularly verified in the history of the lad. 



84 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

It is this — 

** Tall oaks from little acorns grow." 

Now, this acorn of eloquence, which sprouted 
forth so vigorously on this occasion, has at length 
grown into a mighty oak of oratory on his native 
hills. He has flourished in a Fourth of July ora- 
tion before his fellow-townsmen. 

Memorus Word well, who at this time was eleven 
years old, yelped forth the aforementioned speech 
of Pitt. In the part replying to the taunt that the 
author of the speech was a young man, Memorus 
'' beat all." Next to the master himself, he excited 
the greatest admiration, and particularly in his father 
and mother. 

But this chapter must be ended, so we will skip 
to the end of this famous exhibition. At a quarter 
past ten, the curtain dropped for the last time ; that 
is, the bed-blankets were pulled down and put into 
the sleighs of their owners, to be carried home to 
be spread over the dreamers of acts, instead of 
being hung before the actors of dreams. The little 
boys and girls did not get to bed till eleven o'clock 
that night, nor all of them to "sleep till twelve. 
They were never more the pupils of Mr. Spoutsound. 
He soon migrated to one of the States beyond the 
Alleghany. There he studied law not more than a 
year certainly, and was admitted to the Bar. It is 
rumored that he soon spoke himself into the legis- 
lature, and as soon spoke himself out again. 
Whether he will speak himself into Congress is a 



AS IT WAS. 85 

matter of exceeding doubt. I have nothing more 
to add respecting the speaking master, or the speak- 
ing, excepting that one shrewd old man was heard 
to say on leaving the school-house, exhibition night, 
" A great cry^ but little wool." 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL, 



CHAPTER XIII. 



LEARNING TO WRITE. 



The winter I was nine years old, I made another 
advance toward the top of the ladder, in the cir- 
cumstance of learning to write. I desired and 
pleaded to commence the chirographical art the 
summer, and indeed the winter before ; for others 
of my own age were at it thus early. But my 
father said that my fingers were hardly stout 
enough to manage a quill from his geese ; but that, 
if I would put up with the quill of a hen, I might 
try. This pithy satire put an end to my teasing. 

Having previously had the promise of writing 
this winter, I had made all the necessary prepara- 
tions, days before school was to begin. I had 
bought me a new birch ruler, and had given a third 
of my wealth, four cents, for it. To this I had 
appended, by a well-twisted flaxen string, a plum- 
met of my own running, whittling, and scraping. 
I had hunted up an old pewter inkstand, which had 
come down from the ancestral eminence of my 
great grandfather, for aught I know ; and it bore 
many marks of a speedier and less honorable de- 
scent, to wit, from table or desk to the floor. I 
had succeeded in becoming the owner of a pen- 



AS IT WAS. 87 

knife, not that it was likely to be applied to its ap- 
propriate use that winter at least ; for such begin- 
ners generally used the instrument to mar that kind 
of pens they wrote in, rather than to make or mend 
those they wrote with. I had selected one of the 
fairest quills out of an enormous bunch. Half a 
quire of foolscap had been folded into the shape of 
a writing-book by the maternal hand, and covered 
with brown paper, nearly as thick as a sheepskin. 

Behold me now, on the first Monday in Decem- 
ber, starting for school, with my new and clean 
writing-book buttoned under my jacket, my ink- 
stand in my pocket, a bundle of necessary books in 
one hand, and my ruler and swinging plummet in 
the other, which I flourished in the air and around 
my head, till the sharpened lead made its first mark 
on my own face. My long white-feathered goose- 
quill was twisted into my hat-band, like a plumy 
badge of the distinction to which I had arrived, 
and the important enterprise before me. 

On arriving at the school-house, T took a seat 
higher up and more honorable than the one I occu- 
pied the winter before. At the proper time, my 
writing-book, which, with my quill, I had handed 
to the master on entering, was returned to me, with 
a copy set, and paper ruled and pen made. My 
copy was a single straight mark, at the first corner 
of my manuscript. "A straight mark ! who could 
not make so simple a thing as that ?" thought I. I 
waited, however, to see how the boy next to me, a 
beginner also, should succeed, as he had got ready 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



a moment before me. Never shall I forget the first 
chirograph ical exploit of this youth. That inky- 
image will never be eradicated from my memory, 
so long as a single trace of early experience is left 
on its tablet. The fact is, it was an epoch in my 
life : something great was to be done, and my at- 
tention was intensely awake to whatever had a 
bearing on this new and important trial of my 
powers. I looked to see a mark as straight as a 
ruler, having its four corners as distinctly defined 
as the angles of a parallelogram. 

But, O me ! what a spectacle ! What a shocking 
contrast to my anticipation ! That mark had as 
many crooks as a ribbon in the wind, and nearer 
eight angles than four; and its two sides were 
nearly as rough and as notched as a fine handsaw ; 
and, indeed, the mark somewhat resembled it in 
width, for the fellow had laid in a store of ink 
sufficient to last the journey of the whole line. 
"Shame on him!" said I, internally, " I can beat 
that, I know." I began by setting my pen firmly 
on the paper, and I brought a mark half-way down 
with rectilinear precision. Bat by this time my 
head began to swim, and my hand to tremble. I 
was as it were in vacancy, far below the upper 
ruling, and as far above the lower. My self-pos- 
session failed ; my pen diverged to the right, then 
to the left, crooking all the remainder of its way, 
with as many zig-zags as could well be in so short 
a distance. Mine was as sad a failure as my neigfi- 
bor's. I covered it over with my fingers, and did 



AS IT WAS. 89 

not jog him with a " see there," as I had vainly an- 
ticipated. 

So much for pains-taking, now for chance. By- 
good luck the next effort was quite successful. I 
now dashed on, for better or worse, till in one half- 
hour I had cov^ered the whole page with the stand- 
ing, though seemingly falling, monuments of the 
chirographical wisdom of my teacher, and skill of 
myself. In the afternoon a similar copy was set, 
and I dashed on again as if I had taken so much 
writing by the job, and my only object was to save 
time. Now and then there was quite a reputable 
mark ; but alas — for him whose perception of the 
beautiful was particularly delicate, should he get a 
glimpse of these sloughs of ink ! 

The third morning, my copy was the first ele- 
ment of the m and ^^, or what in burlesque is called 
a hook. On my fourth, I had the last half of the 
same letters, or the trammel ; and indeed they were 
the similitudes of hooks and trammels, forged in a 
country plenteous in iron, and by the youngest ap- 
prentice at the hammer and anvil. 

In this way I went through all the small letters, 
as they are called. First, the elements or constitu- 
ent parts, then the whole character in which these 
parts were combined. 

Then I must learn to make the capitals, before 
entering on joining hand. Four pages were devo- 
ted to these. Capital letters ! They were capital 
offences against all that is graceful, indeed decent, 
yea tolerable, in that art which is so capable of 

beautiful forms and proportions. 
8* 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



I came next to joining hand, about three weeks 
after my commencement; and joining hand indeed 
it was ! It seemed as if my hooks and trammels 
were overheated in the forge, and were meUed into 
each other ; the shapeless masses so clung together 
at points where they ought to have been separate, 
so very far were they from all resemblance to con- 
joined, yet distinct and well-defined characters. 

Thus I went on, a perfect little prodigal in the 
expenditure of paper, ink, pens and time. The 
first winter, I splashed two, and the next, three 
writing-books with inky puddle, in learning coarse 
hand; and, after all, I had gained not much in pen- 
manship, except a workmanlike assurance and 
celerity of execution, such as is natural to an old 
hand at the business. 

The third winter, I commenced small hand, or 
rather fine, as it is more technically denominated; 
or rather a copy of half-way dimensions, that the 
change to fine running-hand might not be too sud- 
den. From this dwarfish course, or giant fine hand, 
— ^just as you please to call it, — I slid down to the 
genuine epistolary and mercantile, with a capital at 
the head of the line, as much out of proportion as a 
corpulent old captain marching in single file before 
a parade of little boys. 

Some of our teachers were accustomed to spend 
a few minutes, forenoon and afternoon, in going, 
round among the writers to see that they held the 
pen properly, and took a decent degree of pains. 
But the majority of them, according to present rec- 



AS IT WAS. 91 

plleclions, never stirred from the desk to superin- 
tend this branch. There was something hke an 
excuse, however, for not visiting their pupils while 
at the pen. Sitting as they did in those long, nar- 
row, ricketty seats, one could hardly be got at 
without joggling two or three others, displacing a 
writing-book, knocking over an inkstand, and 
making a deal of rustle, rattle, and racket. 

Some of the teachers set the copies at home in 
the evening, but most set them in school. Six 
hours per day were all that custom required of a 
teacher : of course, half an hour at home spent in 
the matters of the school would have been time and 
labor not paid for, and a gratuity not particularly 
expected. On entering in the morning, and looking 
for the master as the object at which to make the 
customary '' manners," we could perceive just the 
crown of his head beyond a huge stack of manu- 
scripts, which, together with his copy-setting atten- 
tion, prevented the bowed and courtesied respects 
from his notice. A few of the most advanced in 
penmanship had copper-plate slips, as they were 
called, tucked into their manuscripts, for the trial of 
their more skillful hands ; or, if an ordinary learner 
had for once done extraordinarily well, he was per- 
mitted a slip as a mark of merit, and a circumstance 
of encouragement. Sometimes, when the master 
was pressed for time, all the joining-handers were 
thus furnished. It was a pleasure to have copies 
of this sort ; their polished shades, graceful curves, 
and delicate hair lines, were so like a picture for the 



92 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

eye to dwell upon. But, when we set about the 
work of imitation, discouragement took the place of 
pleasure. "After all, give us the master's hand,'* 
we thought ; " we can come up to that now and 
then." We despaired of ever becoming decent 
penmen with this copper-plate perfection mocking 
our clumsy fingers. 

There was one item in penmanship which our 
teachers generally omitted altogether. It was the 
art of making and mending pens. I suffer, and 
others on my account suffer, from this neglect even 
at this day. The untraceable " partridge tracks," 
as some one called them, with which I perplex my 
correspondents, and am now about to provoke the 
printer, are chargeable to my ignorance in pen- 
making. It is a fact, however some acquaintances 
may doubt it, that I generally write very legibly, 
if not gracefully, whenever I borrow, beg, or steal 
a pen. 

Let not the faithful Wrifford, should his eye 
chance to fall on this lament, think that I have for- 
gotten his twelve lessons, of one hour each, on 
twelve successive, cold November days, when I was 
just on the eve of commencing pedagogue for the 
first time — (for I, too, have kept a district school, in 
a manner somewhat like " as it was") — I have not 
forgotten them. He did well for me. But, alas ! 
his tall form bent over my shoulder, his long flexile 
finger adjusted my pen, and his vigilant eye glanced^ 
his admonitions, in vain. That thirteenth lesson 
which he added gratis, to teach us pen-making, I 



AS IT WAS. 93 

was so unfortunate as to lose. Lamentable to me 
and to many others, that I was kept away. 

I blush while I acknowledge it, but I have taught 
school, have taught penmanship, have made and 
mended a hundred pens a day, and all the time I 
knew not much more of the art of turning quill 
into pen, than did the goose from whose wing it 
was plucked. But my manufactures were received 
by my pupils, as good. Good, of course, they must 
be ; for the master made them, and who should 
dare to question his competency? If the instru- 
ment did not operate well, the fault must certainly 
be in the fingers that wielded, not those that 
wrought it. 

O ye pedagogues, whom I have here condemned 
to *' everlasting fame!" taking it for granted that 
this record will be famous forever, be not too angry 
with my humble authorship ; for I, too, let it be re- 
peated, have kept a district school as it was, as well 
as bee?i to one. But, brother pedagogues of the 
past ! I will tell you what I purpose to do : per- 
haps some of you will purpose to do so likewise. 
Should this exposure of our deficiencies meet with 
a tolerable sale, I purpose to employ a teacher in the 
art of cutting, splitting, and shaving pen timber 
into the best possible fitness for chirographic use. 
It is my heart's hope, and it shall be my hand's 
care, that he may not teach in vain. Then, if I 
cannot make amends to my cheated pupils, I trust 
that the wearied eyes and worn-out patience of 
former tracers of " partridge tracks" shall recover, 
to be thus wearied and worn out no more. 



94 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XIV. 

SEVENTH WINTER, BUT NOT MUCH ABOUT IT — EIGHTH 

WINTER MR. JOHNSON — GOOD ORDER, AND BUT LITTLE 

PUNISHING A STORY ABOUT PUNISHING NINTH WIN- 
TER. 

Of my seventh winter I have but little to say; 
for but little was done worthy of record here. We 
had an indolent master and an idle school. Some 
tried to kindle up the speaking spirit again ; but 
the teacher had no taste that way. But there was 
dialoguing enough nevertheless — in that form 
called whispering. Our school was a theatre in 
earnest; for ''plays" were going on all the time. 
It was "acting" to the life, acting any-how rather 
than like scholars at their books. But let that win- 
ter and its works, or rather want of works, pass. 
Of the eighth I can say something worth notice, I 
think. 

In consequence of the lax discipline of the two 
last winters, the school had fallen into very idle and 
turbulent habits. "A master that will keep order, 
a master that will keep order ! " was the cry through- 
out the district. Accordingly such a one was 
sought, and fortunately found. A certain Mr. John- 
son, who had taught in a neighboring town, was 



AS IT \*AS. 95 

famous for his strictness, and that without much 
punishing. He was obtained at a little higher price 
than usual, and was thought to be well worth the 
price. I will describe his person, and relate an 
incident as characteristic of the man. 

Mr. Johnson was full six feet high, with the 
diameter of his chest and limbs in equal proportion. 
His face was long, and as dusky as a Spaniard's; 
and the dark was still darkened by the roots of an 
enormous beard. His eyes were black, and looked 
floggings and blood from out their cavernous 
sockets, which were overhung by eyebrows not 
unlike brush-heaps. His hair was black and curly, 
and extended down, and expanded on each side of 
his face in a pair of whiskers a freebooter might 
have envied. 

He possessed the longest, widest, and thickest 
ruler I ever saw. This was seldom brandished in 
his hand, but generally lay in sight upon the desk. 
Although he was so famous for his orders in 
school, he scarcely ever had to use his punitive 
instrument. His look, bearing, and voice were 
enough for the subjection of the most riotous school. 
Never was our school so still and so studious as this 
winter. A circumstance occurred the very first day, 
which drove every thing like mischief in conster- 
nation from every scholar's heart. Abijah Wilkins 
had for years been called the worst boy in school. 
Masters could do nothing with him. He was surly, 
saucy, profane, and truthless. Mr. Patch took him 
from an alms-house when he was eight years old, 



96 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

which was eight years before the point of time 
now in view. In his family were mended neither 
his disposition, his manners, nor even his clothes. 
He looked Uke a morose, unpitied pauper still. He 
had shaken his knurl y and filthy fist in the very 
face and eyes of the last winter's teacher. Mr. 
Johnson was told of this son of perdition before he 
began, and was prepared to take some efficient step 
at his first offence. 

Well, the afternoon of the first day, Abijah thrust 
a pin into a boy beside him, which made him 
suddenly cry out with the sharp pain. The sufferer 
was questioned; x\bijah was accused, and found 
guilty. The master requested James Clark to go to 
his room, and bring a rattan he would find there, as 
if the formidable ferule was unequal to the present 
exigency. James came with a rattan very long 
and very elastic, as if it had been selected from a 
thousand, not to walk with, but to whip. Then he 
ordered all the blinds next to the road to be closed. 
He then said, " Abijah, come this way." He came. 
"The school may shut their books, and suspend 
their studies a few minutes. Abijah, take off your 
frock, fold it up, lay it on the seat behi»)d you." 
Abijah obeyed these several commands with sullen 
tardiness. Here, a boy up towards the back seat 
burst out with a sort of shuddering laugh, produced 
by a nervous excitement he could not control. 
" Silence ! " said the master, with a thunder, and a 
stamp on the floor that made the house quake. All 
was as still as midnight — not a foot moved, not a 



AS IT WAS. 97 

seat cracked, not a book rustled. The school 
seemed to be appalled. The expression of every 
countenance was changed; some were unnaturally- 
pale, some flushed, and eighty distended and moist- 
ening eyes were fastened on the scene. The awful 
expectation was too much for one poor girl. '"May 
I go home?" she whined with an imploring and 
terrified look. A single glance from the counte- 
nance of authority crushed the trembler down into 
her seat again. A tremulous sigh escaped from one 
of the larger girls, then all was breathlessly still 
again. " Take off your jacket also, Abijah. Fold 
it, and lay it on your frock." Mr. Johnson then 
took his chair, and set it away at the farthest dis- 
tance the floor would permit, as if all the space 
that could be had would be necessary for the opera- 
tions about to take place. He then took the rattan, 
and seemed to examine it closely, drew it through 
his hand, bent it almost double, laid it down again. 
He then took oflf his own coat, folded it up, and 
laid it on the desk. Abijah's breast then heaved 
like a bellows, his limbs began to tremble, and his 
face was like a sheet. The master now took the 
rattan in his right hand, and the criminal by the 
collar with his left, his large knuckles pressing hard 
against the shoulder of the boy. He raised the 
stick high over the shrinking back. Then, oh I 
what a screech ! Had the rod fallen ? No, it still^ 
remained suspended in the air. " O — I won't do so 
agin — I'll 7iever do so agin — O — O — don't — I will' 
be good — sartinly will." The threatening instru- 
9 



yy THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

ment of pain was gently taken from its elevation. 
The master spoke : " You promise, do you ? " 
"Yis, sir, — oh! yis, sir." The tight grasp was 
withdrawn from the collar. '' Put on your frock 
and jacket, and go to your seat. The rest of you 
may open your books again." The school breathed 
again. Paper rustled, feet were carefully moved, 
the seats slightly cracked, and all things went stilly 
on as before. Abijah kept his promise. He became 
an altered boy ; obedient, peaceable, studious. 
This long and slow process of preparing for the 
punishment was artfully designed by the master, 
gradually to work up the boy's terrors and agonizing 
expectations to the highest pitch, until he should 
yield like a babe to the intensity of his emotions. 
His stubborn nature, which had been like an oak 
on the hills which no storm could prostrate, was 
whittled away and demolished, as it were, sliver by 
sliver. 

Not Abijah Wilkins only, but the whole school 
were subdued to the most humble and habitual 
obedience by the scene I have described. The 
terror of it seemed to abide in their hearts. The 
school improved much this winter, that is, accord- 
ing to the ideas of improvement then prevailing. 
Lessons were well gotten, and well said, although 
the why and the wherefore of them were not asked 
or given. 

Mr. Johnson was employed the next winter also, 
and it was the prevailing wish that he should be 
engaged for the third time ; but he could not be 



AS IT WAS. _ 99 

obtained. His reputation as a teacher had secured 
for him a school at twenty dollars per month for the 
year round, in a distant village ; so we were never 
more to sit " as still as mice," in his most magiste- 
rial presence. For years the saying in the district, 
in respect to him was, '' He was the best master I 
ever went to ; he kept such good order, and pun- 
ished so little." 



100 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XV. 

GOING OUT MAKING BOWS BOYS COMING IN — GIRLS 

GOING OUT AND COMING IN. 

The young are proverbially ignorant of the value 
of time. There is one portion of it, however, 
which they well know how to appreciate. They 
feel it to be a wealth both to body and soul. Its few 
moments are truly golden ones, forming a glittering 
spot amid the drossy dullness of in-school duration. 
I refer to the forenoon and afternoon recess for 
*' going out." Consider that we came from all the 
freedom of the farm, where we had the sweep of 
acres — hills, valleys, woods, and waters, and were 
crowded, I may say packed, into the district box. 
Each one had scarcely more space than would allow 
him to shift his head from an inclination to one 
shoulder to an inclination to the other, or from lean- 
ing on the right elbow, to leaning on the left. 
There we were, the blood of health bouncing 
through our veins, feeding our strength, swelling 
our dimensions ; and there we must stay, three 
hours on a stretch, with the exceptfon of the afore- 
mentioned recess. No wonder that we should prize 
this brief period high, and rush tumultuously out 
doors to enjoy it. 



AS IT WAS. 101 

There is one circumstance in going out which so 
much amuses my recollection, that I will venture 
to describe it to my readers. It is the making of 
our bows, or manners, as it is called. If one wishes 
to see variety in the doing of a single act, let him 
look at school-boys, leaving their bows at the door. 
Tell me not of the diversities and characteristics, of 
the gentilities and the awkwardnesses in the civility 
of shaking hands. The bow is as diversified and 
characteristic, as awkward or genteel, as any move- 
ment many-motioned man is called on to make. 
Especially in a country school, where fashion and 
politeness have not altered the tendencies of nature 
by forming the manners of all after one model of 
propriety. Besides, the bow was before the shake, 
both in the history of the world, and in that of 
every individual man. No doubt the world's first 
gentleman, nature-taught, declined his head in some 
sort, in saluting for the first time the world's first 
lady, in primitive Eden. And no doubt every little 
boy has been instructed to make a '* nice bow," 
from chubby Cain, Abel and Seth, down to the 
mannered younglings of the present day. 

Well, then, it is near half-past ten, a. m., but 
seemingly eleven to the impatient youngters ; an- 
ticipation rather than reflection, being the faculty 
most in action just now. At last the master takes 
out his watch, and gives a hasty glance at the in- 
dex of the hour. Or, if this premonitory symptom 
does not appear, watching eyes can discern the 
signs of the time in the face relaxing itself from 
9* 



102 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

severe duty, and in the moving lips just assuming 
that precise form necessary to pronounce the sen- 
tence of liberation. Then, make ready, take aim, 
is at once the order of every idler. " The boys 
may go out." The little white heads on the little 
seat, as it is called, are the foremost, having nothing 
in front to impede a straight-forward sally. One 
little nimble-foot is at the door in an instant; and, 
as he lifts the latch, he tosses off a bow over his 
left shoulder, and is out in a twinkling. The next 
perhaps squares himself towards the master with 
more precision, not having his attention divided 
between opening the door and leaving his manners. 
Next comes the very least of the little, just in front 
of the big-boy rush behind him, tap-tapping and 
tottering along the floor, with his finger in his nose ; 
but, in wheeling from his bow, he blunders head first 
through the door, in his anxiety to get out of the 
way of the impending throng of fists and knees 
behind, in avoiding which he is prostrated under the 
tramp of cowhide. 

Now come the Bigs from behind the writing- 
benches. Some of them make a bow with a jerk 
of the head and snap of the neck possible only to 
giddy-brained, oily-jointed boyhood. Some, whose 
mothers are of the precise cast, or who have had 
4;heir manners stiffened at a dancing-school, will 
wait till the throng is a little thinned ; and then 
they will strut out with their arms as straight at 
their sides as if there were no such things as elbows, 
and will let their upper person bend upon the middle 



AS IT WAS. 103 

hinge, as if this were the only joint in their frames. 
Some look straight at their toes, as the face de- 
scends toward the floor. Others strain a glance up 
at the master, displaying an uncommon proportion 
of that beauty of the eye, — the white. Lastly 
come the tenants of the extreme back seat, the 
Anaks of the school. One long-limbed, lank-sided, 
back-bending fellow of twenty is at the door at 
four strides; he has the proper curve already pre- 
pared by his ordinary gait, and he has nothing to 
do but swing round towards the master, and his 
manners are made. Another, whose body is de- 
veloped in the full proportions of manhood, turns 
himself half way, and just gives the slightest in- 
clination of the person. He thinks himself too 
much of a man to make such a ridiculous popping 
of the pate as the younglings who have preceded 
him. Another, with a tread that makes the floor 
tremble, goes straight out through the open door, 
without turning to the right or left ; as much as to 
say, " I am quite too old for that business." 

There are two in the short seat at the end of the 
spelling floor who have almost attained to the glo- 
rious, or rather vain-glorious age of twenty-one. 
They are perhaps even more aged than the vener- 
able Rabbi of the school himself. So they respect 
their years, and put away childish things, inasmuch 
as they do not go out as their juniors do. One of 
them sticks to his slate. It is his last winter ; and, 
as he did not catch flying time by the forelock, he 
must cling to his heel. The other unpuckers his 



104 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

arithmetical brow, puts his pencil between his 
teeth, leans his head on his right palm, with his 
left fingers adjusts his foretop, and then composes 
himself into an amiable gaze upon the fair remain- 
der of the school. Perhaps his eyes leap at once to 
that damsel of eighteen in the furthermost seat, who 
is the secret mistress of his heart. 

How still it is in the absence of half the limbs 
and lips of the domain ! That little girl who has 
been buzzing round her lesson like a bee round a 
honey-suckle, off and on by turns, is now sipping 
its sweets, if any sweets there be, as closely and 
stilly as that same bee plunged in the bell of the 
flower. The secret of the unwonted silence is, the 
master knows on which side of the aisle to look for 
noise and mischief now. 

It is time for the boys to come in. The master 
raps on the window as a signal. At first they scat- 
ter in one by one, keeping the door on the slam, 
slam. But soon, in rush the main body, pell-mell, 
rubbing their ears, kicking their heels, puffing, 
panting, wheezing. Impelled by the temporary 
chill, they crowd round the fire, regaining the 
needed warmth as much by the exercise of elbows 
as by the heat of fuel. '* Take your seats, you that 
have got warm," says the master. No one starts. 
" Take your seats, all of you." Tramp, tramp, 
how the floor trembles again, and the seats clatter. 
There goes an ink-stand. Ben pinches Tom to let 
him know that he must go in first. Tom stands 
back ; but gives Ben a kick on the shins as he 
passes, to pay for that pinch. 



AS IT WAS. 105 

" The girls may go out." The noise and con- 
fusion are now of the feminine gender. Trip, trip, 
rustle, rustle. Shall I describe the diversities of 
the courtesy ? I could pen a trait or two, but pre- 
fer to leave the subject to the more discriminating 
quill of the courtesying sex. The shrill tones and 
gossiping chatter of girlhood now ring from without. 
But they do not stay long. Trip, trip, rustle, rustle 
back again. Half of them are sucking a lump of 
snow for drink. One has broken an icicle from the 
well-spout, and is nibbing it as she would a stick 
of candy. See Sarah jump. The ice-eater's cold, 
dripping hand has mischievously sprinkled her 
neck. Down goes the melting little cone, and is 
scattered in shivers. " Take your seats," says au- 
thority with soft command. He is immediately 
obeyed ; and the dull routine rolls on toward 
noon. 



106 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XVI. 

NOON — NOISE AND DINNER — SPORTS AT SCHOOL — COAST- 
ING — SNOW-BALLING — A CERTAIN MEMORABLE SNOW- 
BALL BATTLE. 

Noon has come. It is even half-past twelve ; for 
the teacher got puzzled with a hard sum, and 
did not attend to the second reading of the first 
class so soon as usual by half an hour. It has been 
hitch, hitch — ^joggle, joggle — creak, creak, all over 
the school-room for a considerable time. '' You are 
dismissed," comes at last. The going out of half 
the school only was a noisy business; but now 
there is a tenfold thunder, augmented by the windy 
rush of many petticoats. All the voices of all the 
tongues now split or rather shatter the air, if I may 
so speak. There are more various tones than could 
be indicated by all the epithets ever applied to 
sound. 

The first manual operation is the extracting of 
certain parcels from pockets, bags, baskets, hat- 
crowns, and perhaps the capacious cavity formed by 
the tie of a short open frock. Then what a savory 
development, — bread, cheese, cakes, pies, sausages, 
and apples without number ! It is voice ve?'siis 
appetite now for the occupancy of the mouth. Or, 



AS IT WAS. 107 

to speak less lawyer-like and more popularly, they 
have 3. jaw together. 

The case is soon decided, that is, dinner is dis- 
patched. Then commences what, in view of most 
of us, is the chief business of the day. Before 
describing this, however, 1 would premise a little. 
The principal allurement and prime happiness of 
going to school, as it used to be conducted, was the 
opportunity it afforded for social amusement. Our 
rural abodes were scattered generally a half or a 
quarter of a mile apart, and the young could 
not see each other every day as conveniently as 
they can in a city or a village. The schooling 
season was therefore looked forward to as one long 
series of holidays, or, as Mark Martin once said, as 
so many thanksgiving days, except the music, the 
sermon, and the dinner. Mark Martin, let me 
mention by the way, was the wit of the school. 
Some of his sayings, that made us laugh at the 
time, I shall hereafter put down. They may not 
affect the reader, however, as they did us, for the 
lack of his peculiar manner which set them off. 
" What a droll fellow Mark Martin is! " used to be 
the frequent expression. 

Should I describe all the pastimes of the winter 
school, it would require more space than befits 
my plan. I shall therefore touch only on one or 
two of the different kinds of out-door frolic, such 
only as are peculiar to winter, and give a partic- 
ular zest to the schooling season. 

Of all the sportive exercises of the winter school, 



108 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

the most exliilamting, indeed intensely delightful 
was sliding down hill, or coasting, as it is called. 
Not having the privilege of this, excepting in the 
snowy season, and then with frequent interruptions, 
it was far more highly prized. The location of our 
school was uncommonly favorable for this diversion. 
Situated as we were on a hill, we could go down 
like arrows for the eighth of a mile on one side, and 
half that distance on the other. Almost every boy 
had his sled. Some of us got our names branded 
on the vehicle, and prided ourselves in the work- 
manship or the swiftness of it, as mariners do in 
that of a ship. We used to personify the dear 
little speeder with a she and a her, seaman-like 
also. Take it when a few days of severely cold 
and clear weather have permitted the road to be 
worn icy smooth, and the careering little coaster is 
the most enviable pleasure-rider that was ever eager 
to set out or sorry to stop. The very tugging up 
hill back again, is not without its pleasure. The 
change of posture is agreeable, and also the stir of 
limb and stretch of muscle for the short time re- 
quired to return to the starting place. Then there 
is the looking forward to the glorious down-hill 
again. In all the pleasures of human experience, 
there is nothing like coasting, for the regular alter- 
nation of glowing anticipation and frame-thrilling 
enjoyment. 

Had there been a mill-pond or any other suffi- 
cient expanse of water near the old school-house, I 
should probably now pen a paragraph on the 



AS IT WAS. 109 

delights of skating ; but as there was not, and this 
was not therefore one of our school-sports, such a 
description would not properly belong to these 
annals. 

But there is another pastime which comes only 
with the winter, and is enjoyed mostly at school, to 
which I will devote a few pages. It is the chival- 
rous pastime of snow-balling. Take, for instance, 
the earliest snow of winter, falling gently and 
stilly with its feathery flakes, of just the right 
moisture for easy manipulation. Or when the 
drifts soften in the mid-winter thaw, or begin to 
settle beneath the lengthened and sunny days of 
March, then is the season for the power and glory 
of a snow-ball fight. The whole school of the 
martial sex are out of a noon-time, from the vet- 
erans of a hundred battles down almost to the 
freshest recruits of the little front seat. Half 
against half, unless a certain number agree to 
*' take " all the rest. The oldest are opposed to the 
oldest in the hostile array, so that the little round, 
and perhaps hard, missile may not be out of pro- 
portion to the age, size, and toughness of the 
antagonist likely to be hit. The little boys, of 
course, against the little, with this advantage, that 
their discharges lose most of their force before 
reaching the object aimed at. When one is hit, he 
is not merely wounded ; he is a dead man as to this- 
battle. Here, no quarter is asked or given. The 
balls whistle, the men fall, until all are defunct 
but one or two individuals, who remain un killed 
10 



110 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

because there is no enemy left to hurl the fatal 
ball. 

But our conflicts were not always make-believes, 
and conducted according to the formal rules of 
play : these sham-fights sometimes waxed into the 
very reality of war. 

The school was about equally divided between 
the East and the West ends of the district. From 
time immemorial there had come down a rivalry 
between the two parties in respect to physical 
activity and strength. At the close of the school 
in the afternoon, and at the parting of the scholars 
on their different ways toward home, there were 
almost always a few farewells in the form of a 
sudden trip-up, a dab of snow, or an icy-ball almost 
as tenderly soft and agreeable of contact as that 
mellow thing — a stone. These valedictories were 
as courteously reciprocated from the other side. 

These sliglit skirmishes would sometimes grow 
into a general battle, when the arm was not careful 
to proportion the force just so as to touch and no 
more, as in a noon-day game. 

One battle I recollect, which is worthy of being 
commemorated in a book, at least a book about 
boyhood, like this. It is as fresh before my mind's 
eye as if it were but yesterday. To swell some- 
what into the pompons, glorious Waterloo could not 
be remembered by its surviving heroes with greater 
tenacity or distinctness. 

It had gently but steadily snowed all one De- 
cember night, and almost all the next day. Owing 



AS IT WAS. Ill 

to the weather, there were no girls excepting Cap- 
tain Clark's two, and no very small boys, at school. 
The scholars had been unusually playful through 
the day, and had taken Hberties which would not 
have been tolerated in the full school. 

When we were dismissed at night, the snow bad 
done falling, and the ammunition of just the right 
moisture lay in exhaustless abundance on the 
ground, all as level as a floor ; for there had been 
no wind to distribute unequally the gifts of the im- 
partial clouds. The first boy that sprang from the 
threshold caught up a quart of the spotless but 
viscid material, and whitewashed the face of the 
next one at the door, who happened to belong to 
the rival side. This was a signal for general 
action. As fast as the troops poured out, they 
rushed to the conflict. We had not the coolness 
deliberately to arrange ourselves in battle-order, line 
against line; but each aimed at each as he could, 
no matter whom, how, or where, provided that he 
belonged to the " other End." We did not round 
the snow into shape, but hurled and dashed it in 
large masses, as we happened to snatch or scoop it 
up. As the combatants in gunpowder war are 
hidden from each other by clouds of their own rais- 
ing, so also our warriors clouded themselves from 
sight. And there were other obstacles to vision be- 
sides the discharges in the air ; for one, or both of 
the eyes of us all were glued up and sealed in dark- 
ness by the damp, sticky matter. The nasal and 
auditory cavities too were temporarily closed. And 



112 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

here and there a mouth, opening after a little 
breath, received the same snowy visitation. 

At length, from putting snow into each other, we 
took to putting each other into the snow. Not by 
the formal and deliberate wrestle, but pell-mell, 
hurly-burly, as foot, hand, or head could find an 
advantage. The combatants were covered with the 
clinging element. It was as if their woolen habili- 
ments had turned back to their original white. So 
completely were we all besmeared by the same ma- 
terial, that we could not tell friend from foe in the 
blind encounter. No matter for this ; we were now 
crazed with fun ; and we were ready to carry it to 
the utmost extent that time and space and snow 
would admit. Just opposite the school-house door, 
the hill descended very steeply from the road for 
about ten rods. The stone wall just here was quite 
low, and completely covered with snow even 
before this last fall. The two stoutest champions 
of the fray had been snowing it into each other 
like storm-spirits from the two opposite poles. At 
length, as if their snow-bolts were exhausted, they 
seized each other for the tug of muscle with muscle. 
They had unconsciously worked themselves to' the 
precipitous brink. Another stout fellow caught a 
glimpse of their position, gave a rush and a push, 
and both Arctic and Antarctic went tumbling heels 
hindmost down the steep declivity, until they were 
stopped by the new-fallen snow in which they 
were completely buried ; and one with his nose 
downward as if he had voluntarily dived into his 



AS IT WAS. 113 

own grave. This was a signal for a general push- 
ofF, and the performer of the sudden exploit was the 
first to be gathered to his victims below. In five 
minutes, all were in the same predicament but one, 
who, not finding himself attacked, wiped the plas- 
ter from his eyes, and saw himself the lone hero of 
the field. He gave a victorious shout ; then, not 
liking solitude for a playmate, he made a dauntless 
leap after the rest, who were now thickly rising 
from their snowy burial to life, action, and fun 
anew. Now the game is to put each other down, 
down, to the bottom of the hill. There is pulling, 
pushing, pitching, and whirling, every species of 
manual attack, except the pugilistic thump and 
knock-down. One long lubber has fallen exactly 
parallel with the bottom ; and, before he can re- 
cover himself, two others are rolling him down like 
a senseless log, until the lumberers themselves are 
pitched head first over their timber by other hands 
still behind them. But at length we are all at the 
bottom of the hill, and indeed at the bottom of our 
strength. Which End, the East or the West, had 
the day, could not be determined. In one sense it 
belonged to neither, for it was night. We now 
found ourselves in a plight not particularly com- 
fortable to ourselves, nor likely to be very agree- 
able to the domestic guardians we must now meet. 
But the battle has been described, and that is 
enough : there is no glory in the suffering that 
succeeds. 

10* 



114 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XVII. 

ARITHMETIC COMMENCEMENT — PROGRESS LATE IM- 
PROVEMENT IN THE ART OF TEACHING. 

At the age of twelve, I commenced the study of 
Arithmetic, that chiefest of sciences in Yankee es- 
timation. No man is wiUing that his son should be 
without skill in figures. And if he does not teach 
him his A B C at home, he will the art of counting, 
at least. Many a father deems it no hardship to 
instruct his child to enumerate even up to a hundred, 
when it would seem beyond his capacity, or cer- 
tainly beyond the leisure of his rainy days and 
winter evenings, to sit down with the formality of 
a book, and teach him to read. 

The entering on arithmetic was quite an era in 
my school-boy life. This was placing me deci- 
dedly among the great boys, and within hailing 
distance of manhood. My feelings were conse- 
quently considerably elevated. A new Adams's 
Arithmetic of the latest edition was bought for my 
use. It was covered by the maternal hand with 
stout sheep-skin, in the economical expectation, 
that, after I had done with it, it might help still 
younger heads to the golden science. A quire of 
foolscap was made to take the form of a manuscript 



AS IT WAS. 115 

of the full length of the sheet, with a pasteboard 
cover, as more suitable to the dignity of such su- 
perior dimensions than flimsy brown paper. 

I had also a bran new slate, for Ben used father's 
old one. It was set in a frame wrought by the 
aforesaid Ben, who prided himself on his knack at 
tools, considering that he had never served anr ap- 
prenticeship at their use. There was no lack of 
timber in the fabrication. Mark Martin said that 
he could make a better frame with a jack-knife in 
his left hajid, and keep his right in his pocket. 

My first exercise was transcribing from my Arith- 
metic to my manuscript. At the top of the first 
page I penned ARITHMETIC, in capitals an inch 
high, and so broad that this one word reached en- 
tirely across the page. At a due distance below, I 
wrote the word Addition in large, coarse hand, 
beginning with a lofty A, which seemed like the 
drawing of a mountain peak, towering above the 
level wilderness below. Then came Rulej in a 
little smaller hand, so that there was a regular gra- 
dation from the enormous capitals at the top, down 
to the fine running — no, hobbling hand in which I 
wrote off the rule. 

Now slate and pencil and brain came into use. I 
met with no difficulty at first ; Simple Addition 
was as easy as counting my fingers. But there 
was one thing I could not understand — that carry- 
ing of tens. It was absolutely necessary, I per- 
ceived, in order to get the right answer ; yet it 
was a mystery which that arithmetical oracle, our 



116 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



schoolmaster, did not see fit to explain. It is possi- 
ble that it was a mystery to him. Then came 
Subtraction. The borrowing of ten was another 
unaccountable operation. The reason seemed to 
me then at the very bottom of the well of science ; 
and there it remained for that winter, for no friendly- 
bucket brought it up to my reach. 

Every rule was transcribed to my manuscript, 
and each sum likewise as it stood proposed in the 
book, and also the whole process of figures by 
which the answer was found. 

Each rule, moreover, was, or rather was to be, 
committed to memory, word for word, which to me 
was the most tedious and difficult job of the 
whole. 

I advanced as far as Reduction this first winter, 
and a third through my manuscript, perhaps. The 
end of the Arithmetic seemed almost as far off in 
the future as that end of boyhood and under-age 
restraint, twenty-one. 

The next winter I began at Addition again, to 
advance just through Interest. My third season I 
went over the same ground again, and, besides 
that, ciphered to the very last sum in the Rule of 
Three. This was deemed quite an achievement 
for a lad only fourteen years old, according to the 
ideas prevailing at that period. Indeed I was now 
fitted to figure on and fill up the blank pages of 
manhood, to solve the hard question how much 
money I should be worth in the course of years. 
In plain language, whoever ciphered through the 



AS IT WAS. 117 

above-mentioned rule was supposed to have arith- 
metic enough for the common purposes of life. If 
one proceeded a few rules beyond this, he was con- 
sidered quite smart. But if he went clear through 
— Miscellaneous Questions and all — he was thought 
to have an extraordinary taste and genius for 
figures. Now and then, a youth, after having been 
through Adams, entered upon old Pike, the arith- 
metical sage who "set the sums" for the preced- 
ing generation. Such were called great '' arithme- 
ticians." 

The fourth winter T advanced — but it is not im- 
portant to the purpose of this work that I should 
record the minutise of my progress in the science 
of numbers. Suffice it to say, that I was not one 
of the " great at figures." 

The female portion of the school, we may sup- 
pose, generally expected to obtain husbands to per- 
form whatever arithmetical operations they might 
need, beyond the counting of fiiigers : so the science 
found no special favor with them. If pursued at 
all, it was neglected till the last year or two of 
their schooling. Most were provident enough to 
cipher as far as through the four simple rules ; for 
although they had no idea of becoming old maids, 
they might possibly, however, be left widows. 
Had arithmetic been pursued at the summer school, 
those who intended to be summer teachers would 
probably have thought more of the science, and 
have proceeded further, even perhaps to the Rule 
of Three. But a schoolmistress would as soon have 



118 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

expected to teach the Arabic language as the 
numerical science. So, ignorance of it was no dis- 
honor even to the first and best of the sex. 

Bat what a change have the last few years pro- 
duced in respect to this subject ! Honor and grati- 
tude be to Pestalozzi ; thanks be to our countrymen, 
Colburn, Emerson, and others, for making what 
was the hardest and driest of studies, one of the 
easiest and most interesting. They have at length 
tackled the intellectual team aright ; have put the 
carriage behind the carrier ; pshaw ! this over- 
refinement spoils the illustration — the cart behind 
the horse, where it ought always to have been. 
Formerly, memory, the mind's baggage-waggon — 
to change the word, but continue the figure — was 
loaded with rules, rules, words, words, to top-heavi- 
ness, and sent lumbering along ; while the under-' 
standing, which should have been the living and 
spirited mover of the vehicle, was kept ill-fed and 
lean, and put loosely behind, to push after it as it 
could. 



AS IT WAS. 119 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

AUGUSTUS STARR, THE PRIVATEER WHO TURNED PEDA- 
GOGUE — HIS NEW CREAV MUTINY, AND PERFORM A SIN- 
GULAR EXPLOIT. 

My tenth winter, our school was put under the 
instruction of a person named Augustus Starr. 
He was a native of a neighboring town, and had 
before been acquainted with the committee. He 
had taught school some years before, but, for the 
last {e\v years, had been engaged in a business not 
particularly conducive to improvement in the art of 
teaching. He had been an inferior officer aboard 
a privateer in the late war, which terminated only 
the winter before. At the return of peace, he 
betook himself to land again ; and, till something 
more suitable to his tastes and habits should offer, 
he concluded to resume school-keeping, at least for 
one winter. He came to our town ; and, finding 
an old acquaintance seeking for a teacher, he offered 
himself, and was accepted. He was rather gen- 
teelly dressed, and gentlemanly in his manners. 

Mr. Starr soon manifested that stern command, 
rather than mild persuasion, had been his method 
of preserving order, and was to be, still. This 
would have been put up with ; but he soon showed 



120 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

that he could deal in blows as well as words, and 
these not merely with the customary ferule, or 
supple and tingling stick, but with whatever came 
to hand. He knocked one lad down with his fist, 
hurled a stick of wood at another, which missed 
breaking his head because it struck the ceiling, 
making a dent which fearfully indicated what 
would have been the consequence had the skull 
been hit. The scholars were terrified, parents were 
alarmed, and some kept their younger children at 
home. There was an uproar in the district. A 
school-meeting was threatened for the purpose of 
dismissing the captain, as he began to be called, in 
reference to the station he had lately filled, although 
it was not a captaincy. But he commanded the 
school-house crew : so, in speaking of him, they 
gave him a corresponding title. In consequence of 
these indications, our officer became less dangerous 
in his modes of punishment, and was permitted to 
continue still in command. But he was terribly 
severe, nevertheless ; and in his words of menace, 
he manifested no particular respect for that one of 
the ten commandments which forbids profanity. 
But he took pains with his pupils, and they made 
considerable progress according to the prevailing 
notions of education. 

Toward the close of the school, however, Starr's 
fractious temper, his cuffs, thumps, and cudgelings, 
waxed dangerous again. There were signs of 
mutiny among the large scholars, and there were 
provocations and loud talk among parents. The 



AS IT WAS. 121 

man of violence, even at this late period, would 
have been dismissed by the authority of the district^ 
had not a sudden and less formal ejection overtaken 
him. 

The captain had been outrageously severe, and 
even cruel, to some of the smaller boys. The 
older brothers of the sufferers, with others of the 
back seat, declared among themselves, that they 
would put him by force out of the school-house, if 
any thing of the like should happen again. The 
very afternoon succeeding this resolution, an oppor- 
tunity offered to put it to the test. John Howe, for 
some trifling misdemeanor, received a cut with the 
edge of the ruler on his head, which drew blood. 
The dripping wound and the scream of the boy 
were a signal for action, as if a murderer were at 
his fell deed before their eyes. Thomas Howe, 
one of the oldest in the school and the brother of 
the abused, and Mark Martin, were at the side of 
our privateer in an instant. Two others followed. 
His ruler was wrested from his hand, and he was 
seized by his legs and shoulders, before he could 
scarcely think into what hands he had fallen. He 
was carried, kicking and swearing, out of doors. 
But this was not the end of his headlong and hor- 
izontal career. '' To the side-hill, to the side-hill," 
cried Mark, who had him by the head. Now it so 
happened that the hill-side opposite the school-house 
door was crusted, and as smooth and slippery as- 
pure ice, from a recent rain. To this pitch, then, 
he was borne, and in all the haste that his violent 
11 



122 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

Struggles would permit. Over he was thrust, as if 
he were a log; and down he went, giving one of 
his bearers a kick as he was shoved from their 
hands, which action of the foot sent him more 
swiftly on his way from the rebound. There was 
no bush or stone to catch by in his descent, and he 
clawed the unyielding crust with his nails, for the 
want of anything more prominent on which to 
lay hold. Down, down he went. Oh for a pile of 
stones or a thicket of thorns to cling to, even at 
the expense of torn apparel or scratched fingers ! 
Down, down he went, until he fairly came to the 
climax, or rather anti-climax, of his pedagogical 
career. Mark Martin, who retained singular self- 
possession, cried out, " There goes a shooting 
star.^'' 

When our master had come to a " period or full 
stop," to quote from the spelling book, he lay a 
moment as if he had left his breath behind him, or 
as if querying whether he should consider himself 
alive or not; or perhaps whether it were really his 
own honorable self who had been voyaging in this 
unseamanlike fashion, or somebody else. Perhaps 
he was at a loss for the points of compass, as is 
often the case in tumbles and topsy-turvies. He at 
length arose and stood upright, facing the ship of 
literature which he had lately commanded; and his 
mutinous crew, great and small, male and female, 
now lining the side of the road next to the 
declivity, from which most of them had witnessed 
his expedition. The movement had been so sud- 



AS IT WAS. 123 

den, and the ejection so unanticipated by the school 
in general, that they were stupefied with an:iaze- 
ment. And the bold performers of the exploit 
were almost as much amazed as the rest, excepting 
Mark, who still retained coolness enough for his 
joke. " What think of the coasting trade, captain ? " 
shouted Mark ; " is it as profitable as privateering ? " 
Our coaster made no reply, but turned in pursuit of 
a convenient footing to get up into the road, and to 
the school-house again. While he was at a dis- 
tance approaching his late station of command, 
Mark Martin stepped forward to hold a parley with 
him. '' We have a word to say to you, sir, before 
you come much farther. If you will come back 
peaceably, you may come ; but as sure as you 
meddle with any of us, we will make you acquaint- 
ed with the heft and the hardness of our fists, and 
of stones and clubs too, if we must. The ship is 
no longer yours ; so look out, for we are our own 
men now." Starr replied, '* I do not wish to have 
anything more to do with the school ; but there is 
another law besides club law, and that you have 
got to take." But when he came up and saw John 
Howe's face stained with blood, and his head bound 
np as if it had received the stroke of a cutlass, he 
began to look rather blank. Our spokesman re- 
minded him of what he had done, and inquired, 
" which is the worst, a ride and a slide, or a 
gashed head ? " "I rather guess that you are the 
one to look out for the law," said Thomas Howe, 
with a threatening tone and look. Whether this 



124 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

hint had effect, I know not, but he never com- 
menced a prosecution. He gathered up his goods 
and chattels, and left tlie school-house. The 
scholars gathered up their implements of learning, 
and left likewise, after the boys had taken one more 
glorious slide down hill. 

There were both gladness and regret in that dis- 
persion ; — gladness that they had no more broken 
heads, shattered hands, and skinned backs to fear ; 
and regret that the season of schooling, and of 
social and delightful play, had been cut short by a 
week. 

The news reached most of the district in the 
course of the next day, that our " man of war," as 
he was sometimes called, had sailed out of port the 
night before. 



AS IT WAS. ]25 



CHAPTER XIX. 

ELEVENTH WINTER MR. SILVERSON, OUR FIRST TEACHER 

FROM COLLEGE HIS BLUNDER AT MEETING ON THE 

SABBATH HIS CHARACTER AS A SCHOOLMASTER. 

This winter, Major Allen was the committee ; 
and of course, every body expected a dear master, 
if not a good one ; he had always expressed him- 
self so decidedly against " your cheap trash." 
They were not disappointed. They had a dear 
master, high priced and not much worth. Major 
Allen sent to college for an instructor, as a young 
gentleman from such an institution must of course 
be qualified as to learning, and would give a higher 
tone to the school. He had good reason for the ex- 
pectation, as a gentleman from the same institution 
had taught the two preceding winters in another 
town where Major Allen was intimately acquainted, 
and gave the highest satisfaction. But he was a 
very different sort of person from Mr. Frederic Sil- 

verson, of the city of , member of the junior 

class in College. This young gentleman did 

not teach eight weeks, at eighteen dollars per 
month, for the sake of the trifling sum to pay his 
college bills, and help him to rub a little more easily 
through. He kept for fun, as he told his fellow 
11* 



126 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

bucks ; that is, to see the fashions of country life, 
to " cut capers" among folks whose opinion he 
didn't care for, and to bring back something to laugh 
about all the next term. The money, too, was a 
consideration, as it would pay a bill or two which 
he preferred that his very indulgent father should 
not know of. 

Major Allen had written to some of the college 
authorities for an instructor, not doubting that he 
should obtain one of proved worth, or at least one 
who had been acquainted with country schools in 
his boyhood, and would undertake with such mo- 
tives as would ensure a faithful discharge of his 
duties. But a tutor, an intimate acquaintance of 
Silverson's family, was requested to aid the self- 
rusticating son to a school ; so by this means this 
city beau and college buck was sent to preside over 
our district seminary of letters. 

Well, Mr. Silverson arrived on Saturday evening 
at Capt. Clark's. Sunday, he went to meeting. 
He was, indeed, a very genteel-looking personage, 
and caused quite a sensation among the young 
people in our meeting-house, especially those of our 
district. He was tall, but rather slender, with a 
delicate skin, and a cheek whose roses had not 
been uprooted from their native bed by what, in 
college, is called hard digging. His hair was cut 
and combed in the newest fashion, as was supposed, 
being arranged very differently from that of our 
young men. Then he wore a cloak of many-col- 
ored plaid, in which flaming red, however, was 



AS IT WAS. 127 

predominant. A plaid cloak — this was a new 
thing in our obscure town at that period, and 
struck us with admiration. We had seen nothing 
but surtouts and great coats from our fathers' sheep 
and our mothers' looms. His cravat was tied be- 
hind ; this was another novelty. We had never 
dreamed but that the knot should be made, and the 
ends should dangle beneath the chin. Then his 
bosom flourished with a ruffle, and glistened with a 
breast-pin, such as were seldom seen so far among 
the hills. 

Capt. Clark unconsciously assumed a stateliness 
of gait unusual to him, as he led the way up the 
centre aisle, introduced the gentleman into his 
pew, and gave him his own seat, that is, next the 
aisle, and the most respectable in the pew. The 
young gentleman, not having been accustomed to 
such deference in public, was a little confused ; and 
when he heard, '' That is the new master," whis- 
pered very distinctly by some one near, and, on 
looking up, saw himself the centre of an alUsur- 
rounding stare, he was smitten with a fit of bash- 
fulness, such as he had never felt before. So he 
quiddled with his fingers, sucked and bit his lips, 
as a relief to his feelings, the same as those rustic 
starers would have done at a splendid party in his 
mother's drawing-rooms. During singing, he was 
intent on the hymn-book, in the prayer he bent 
over the pew-side, and during the sermon looked 
straight at the preacher — a church-like deportment 
which he had never, perhaps, manifested before, 



128 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

and probably may never have since. He was cer- 
tainly not so severely decorous in that meeting- 
house again. After the forenoon services, he com- 
mitted a most egregious blunder, by which his 
bashfulness was swallowed up in shame. It was 
the custom in country towns then, for all who sat 
upon the centre or broad aisle, as it was called, to 
remain in their pews till the reverend man of the 
pulpit had passed along by. Oar city-bred gentle- 
man was not apprised of this etiquette ; for it did 
not prevail in the metropolis. Well, as soon as the 
last amen was pronounced, Capt. Clark politely 
handed him his hat ; and, being next to the pew 
door, he supposed he must make his egress first. 
He stepped out, and had gone several feet down 
the aisle, when he observed old and young stand- 
ing in their pews on both sides, in front of his ad- 
vance, staring at him as if surprised, and some of 
them with an incipient laugh. He turned his head, 
and gave a glance back ; and, behold, he was alone 
in the long avenue, with a double line of eyes aimed 
at him from behind as well as before. All seemed 
waiting for the minister, who by this time had just 
reached the foot of the pulpit stairs. He was con- 
founded with a consciousness of his mistake. 
Should he keep on or return to the pew, was a mo- 
mentary question. It was a dilemma worse than 
any in logic: it was a severe " screw." ^ But 

* When a scholar gets considerably puzzled in recitation, he is 
said in college to take a screw. When he is so ignorant of liis les- 
son as not to be able to recite at all, he takes a dead set. 



AS IT WAS. 129 

finally, back he was going, when, behold, Capt. 
Clark's pew was blocked up by the out-poured and 
out-pouring throng of people, with the minister at 
their head. This was a complete ''dead set," 
"above all Greek, above all Roman fame." What 
should he do now ? He wheeled again, dropped 
his head, put his left hand to his face, and went 
crouching down the aisle, and out of the door, like 
a boy going out with the nose-bleed. 

On the ensuing morning, our collegian com- 
menced school. He had never taught, and had 
never resided in the country before. He had ac- 
quired a knowledge of the daily routine usually 
pursued in school, from a class-mate who had some 
experience in the vocation ; so he began things 
right end foremost, and finished at the other ex- 
tremity in due order ; but they were most clumsily 
handled all the way through. His first fault was 
exceeding indolence. He had escaped beyond the 
call of the morning prayer-bell, that had roused him 
at dawn, and he seemed resolved to replenish his 
nature with sleep. He was generally awakened to 
the consciousness of being a schoolmaster by the 
ringing shouts of his waiting pupils. Then a coun- 
try breakfast was too delicious a contrast to college 
commons to be cut short. Thus that point of du- 
ration called nine o'clock, and school-time, often 
approximated exceedingly near to ten that winter. 

Mr. Silverson did not visit in the several families 
of the district, as most of his predecessors had done. 
He would have been pleased to visit at every house, 



130 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



for he was socially inclined ; and what was more, 
he desired to pick up '< food for fiui^^ when he should 
return to college. But the people did not think 
themselves "smart" enough to entertain a collegian, 

and the son of the rich Mr , of the city of 

, besides. Or, perhaps, what is coming nearer 

the precise truth, his habits and pursuits were so 
different from theirs, that they did not know ex- 
actly how to get at him, and in what manner to at- 
tempt to entertain him ; and he, on the other hand, 
did not ki]ow how to fall into the train of their as- 
sociations in his conversation, so as to make them 
feel at ease, and, as it were, at home with him. 
Another circumstance ought to be mentioned, per- 
haps. The people very soon contracted a growing 
prejudice against our schoolmaster, on account of his 
very evident unfitness for his present vocation, and 
especially his unpardonable indolence and neglect 
of duty. 

So Mr. Silverson was not invited out, excepting 
by Major Allen, who engaged him, and by two or 
three others who chanced to come in contact with 
him, and to find him more sociably disposed, and a 
less formidable personage, than they anticipated. 
He spent most of his evenings, therefore, at his 
boarding-place, with one volume in his hand, gen- 
erally that of a novel, and another volume issuing 
from his mouth, — that of smoke ; and, as his chief 
object was just to kill time, he was not careful that 
the former should not be as fumy, as baseless, and 
as unprofitable as the latter. As for the Greek, 



AS IT WAS. 131 

Latin, and mathematics, to which he should have 
devoted some portion of his time, according to the 
college regulations, he never looked at them till his 
return. Then he just glanced them over, and 
trusted luck when lie was examined for two weeks' 
study, as he had done a hundred times before at 
his daily recitation. 

What our young college buck carried back to 
laugh about all the next term, I do not know, un- 
less it was his own dear self, for being so foolish 
as to undertake a business for which he was so 
utterly unfit, and from which he derived so little 
pleasure, compared with his anticipations. 

Before closing this chapter, I would caution the 
reader not to take the subject of it as a specimen of 
all heirs of city opulence who are, or have been, 
members of college, and have perhaps attempted 
country school-keeping. I have known many of 
very different stamp. One gentleman in f)articular 
rises to recollection, the son of very affluent but 
also very judicious parents. While a student in 
college, he took a district school for the winter va- 
cation. His chief purpose was to add to his stores 
of valuable knowledge, and prepare himself for 
wider usefulness. He would not study the things 
of ancient Greece and Rome, and of modern Eu- 
rope, and neglect the customs and manners, and the 
habits of thinking and feeling, characteristic of his 
own nation. But his own nation were substantially 
the farmers and mechanics scattered on the hills 
and along the valleys of the country. To the 



132 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

country he must therefore go, and into the midst of 
their very domestic circles to study them. But he 
did not seek this advantage to the disadvantage of 
the school committed to his charge. He endeav- 
ored to make himself acquainted with his duties as 
much as he conveniently could beforehand, and 
then he devoted himself assiduously to them. In 
the instruction of the young he derived a benefit 
additional to his principal object in taking the 
school. He learned the art of communication, — 
of adapting himself to minds differing in capacity 
and cultivation from his own. In this way he ac- 
quired a tact in addressing the young and the less 
intelligent among the grown-up, which is now not 
only a gratification, but of great use. He became, 
moreover, interested in the great subject of educa- 
tion more than he otherwise would, — the education 
of the great mass of the people, so that now he is 
one of the most ardent and efficient agents in the 
patriotic and benevolent work. 

This gentleman was exceedingly liked as a 
teacher, and was very popular as a visitor in the 
families of the district. " He seems so like one of 
us. He hasn't an atom of prided Such were the 
frequent remarks. And this was what they did 
not expect of a collegian, city born, and the son of 
one of the richest men in the State. 

He has often remarked since, that these two 
months spent in a district school and country 
neighborhood were of as much value to him as any 
two months of his life ; indeed, of more value than 



AS IT WAS. 133 

any single year of his life. His books enriched 
and disciplined his mind, perhaps ; but this ming- 
ling with the middle rank, of which the great ma- 
jority is composed^ more thoroughly Americanized 
his mind. By his residence among the country 
people, he learned to do what should be done by 
every citizen of the United States, however dis- 
tinguished by birth, wealth, talents or education : 
learned to identify himself with the great body of 
the nation, to consider himself as "one of the 
people." 



12 



134 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XX. 

A COLLEGE MASTER AGAIN HIS CHARACTER IN SCHOOL 

AND OUT OUR FIRST ATTEMPTS AT COMPOSITION 

BRIEF SKETCH OF ANOTHER TEACHER. 

My twelfth winter has arrived. It was thought 
best to try a teacher from college again, as the com- 
mittee had been assured that there were teachers to 
be found there of the first order, and well worth 
the high price they demanded for their services. A 
Mr. Ellis was engaged at twenty dollars per month, 
from the same institution mentioned before. Par- 
ticular pains were taken to ascertain the college 
character, and the school-keeping experience of the 
gentleman, before his engagement, and they were 
such as to warrant the highest expectations. 

The instructor was to board round in the several 
families of the district, who gave the board in 
order to lengthen the school to the usual term. It 
happened that he was to be at our house the first 
week. On Saturday Mr. Ellis arrived. It was a 
great event to us children for the master to stop at 
our house, and one from college too. We were 
smitten with bashfulness, and stiffened into an awk- 
wardness unusual with us, even among strangers. 
But this did not last long. Our guest put us all at 



AS IT WAS. 135 

ease very soon. He seemed just like one of us, or 
like some unpuffed-up uncle from genteeler life, 
who had dropped in upon us for a night, with cor- 
dial heart, chatty tongue, and merry laugh. He 
seemed perfectly acquainted with our prevailing 
thoughts and feelings, and let his conversation slide 
into the current they flowed in, as easily as if he 
had never been nearer college than we ourselves. 
With my father he talked about the price of pro- 
duce, the various processes and improvements in 
agriculture, and the politics of the day, and such 
other topics as would be likely to interest a farmer 
so far in the country. And those topics, indeed, 
were not a few. Some students would have sat in 
dignified or rather dumpish silence, and have gone 
to bed by mid-evening, simply because those who 
sat with them could not discourse on those deep 
things of science, and lofty matters of literature, 
which were particularly interesting to themselves. 
With my mother Mr. Ellis talked at first about her 
children. He patted a little brother on his cheek, 
took a sister on his knee, and inquired the baby's 
name. Then he drew forth a housewifely strain 
concerning various matters in country domestic life. 
Of me he inquired respecting my studies at school 
years past ; and even condescended to speak of his 
own boyhood and youth, and of the sports as well 
as the duties of school. The fact is, that Mr. Ellis 
had always lived in the country till three years 
past; his mind was full of rural remembrances ; and 
he knew just how to take us to be agreeable him- 
self, and to elicit entertainment in return. 



136 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

Mr. Ellis showed himself at home in school, as 
well as at the domestic fireside. He was perfectly- 
familiar with his duties, as custom had prescribed 
them, but he did not abide altogether by the old 
usages. He spent much time in explaining those 
rules in arithmetic and grammar, and those passages 
in the spelling-book, with which we had hitherto 
lumbered our memories. 

This teacher introduced a new exercise into our 
school, that we had never thought of before as be- 
ing possible to ourselves. It was composition. We 
hardly knew what to make of it. To write — to 
put sentence after sentence like a newspaper, a 
book, or a sermon — oh ! we could not do this ; we 
could not think of such a thing ; indeed, it was an 
impossibility. But we must try, at any rate. The 
subject given out for this novel use of thought and 
pen was friendship. Friendship — what had we to 
say on this subject ? We could feel on it, perhaps, 
especially those of us who had read a novel or two, 
and had dreamed of eternal friendship. But we 
had not a single idea. Friendship ! oh ! it is a de- 
lightful thing ! This, or something similar, was 
about all we poor creatures could think of. What 
a spectacle of wretchedness did we present! A 
stranger would have supposed us all smitten with 
the toothache, by the agony expressed in the face. 
One poor girl put her head down into a corner, and 
cried till the master excused her. And, finally, 
finding that neither smiles nor frowns would put 
ideas into our heads, he let us go for that week. 



AS IT WAS. ^ 137 

In about a fortnight, to our horror, the exercise 
was proposed again. But it was only to write a 
letter. Any one could do as much as this, the 
master said ; for almost every one had occasion to 
do it in the course of life. Indeed, we thought, on 
the whole, that we could write a letter, so at it we 
went with considerable alacrity. But our attempts 
at the epistolary were nothing like those spirited, 
and even witty, products of thought which used 
ever to be flying from seat to seat in the shape of 
billets. The sprightly fancy and the gushing heart 
seemed to have been chilled and deadened by the 
reflection that a letter must be written, and the 
master must see it. These episotlary compositions 
generally began, continued, and closed all in the 
same way, as if all had got the same recipe from 
their grandmothers for letter writing. They mostly 
commenced in this manner: ''Dear friend, I take 
my pen in hand to inform you that I am well, and 
hope you are enjoying the same blessing." Then 
there would be added, perhaps, '' We have a very 
good schoolmaster ; have you a good one ? How 
long has your school got to keep ? We have had a 
terrible stormy time on't," &c. Mark Martin ad- 
dressed the master in his epistle. What its contents 
were I could not find out ; but I saw Mr. Ellis read 
it. At first he looked grave, as at the assurance of 
the youth ; then a little severe, as if his dignity 
was outraged ; but in a moment he smiled, and 
finally he almost burst out with laughter at some 
closing witticism. 
12* 



138 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



Mark's was the only composition that had any 
nature and soul in it. He wrote what he thought, 
instead of thinking what to write, like the rest of 
us, who, in the effort, thought just nothing at all ; 
for we wrote words which we had seen written a 
hundred times before. 

Mr. Ellis succeeded in delivering us from our 
stale and flat formalities before he had done. He 
gave us no more such abstract and lack-idea subjects 
as friendship. He learned better how to accommo- 
date the theme to the youthful mind. We were set 
to describe what we had se^n with our eyes, heard 
with our ears, and what had particularly interested 
our feelings at one time and another. One boy 
described the process of cider-making. Another 
gave an account of a squirrel-hunt ; another of a 
great husking; each of which had been witnessed 
the autumn before. The girls described certain 
domestic operations. One, I remember, gave quite 
an amusing account of the coming and going, and 
final tarrying, of her mother's soap. Another 
penned a sprightly dialogue, supposed to have taken 
place between two sisters on the question, which 
should go a visiting with mother, and which should 
stay at home and " take care of the things." 

The second winter (for he taught two), Mr. Ellis 
occasionally proposed more abstract subjects, and 
such as required more thinking and reasoning, but 
still, such as were likely to be interesting, and on 
which he knew his scholars to possess at least a 
few ideas. 



AS IT WAS. 139 

I need not say how popular Mr. Ellis was in the 
district. He was decidedly the best schoolmaster I 
ever went to, and he was the last. 

I have given him a place here, not because he is 
to be classed with his predecessors who taught the 
district school as it was^ but because he closed the 
series of my own instructors there, and was the 
last, moreover, who occupied the old school-house. 
He commenced a new era in our district. 

Before closing, I must give one necessary hint. 
Let it not be inferred from this narrative of my 
own particular experience, that the best teachers of 
district schools are to be found in college only. 
The very next winter, the school was blessed with 
an instructor even superior to Mr. Ellis, although 
he was not a collegian. Mr. Henry, however, had 
well disciplined and informed his mind, and was, 
moreover, an experienced teacher. I was not one 
of his pupils ; but I was in the neighborhood, and 
knew of his methods, his faithfulness, and success. 
His tall, spare, stooping and dyspeptic form is now 
distinctly before my mind's eye. I see him 
wearied with incessant exertion, taking his way 
homeward at the close of the afternoon school. 
His pockets are filled with compositions, to be 
looked over in private. There are school-papers in 
his hat too. A large bundle of writing-books is 
under his arm. Through the long evening, and in 
the little leisure of the morning, I see him still hard 
at work for the good of his pupils. Perhaps he is 
surrounded by a circle of the larger scholars, whom 



140 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

he has invited to spend the evening with him, to 
receive a more thorough explanation of some 
branch or item of study than there was time for in 
school. But stop — Mr. Henry did not keep the 
district school as it was — why, then, am I describing 
him? 



AS IT WAS. 141 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE EXAMINATION AT THE CLOSING OF THE SCHOOL. 

The district school as it was, generally closed, 
in the winter, with what was called an " Examina- 
tion." This was usually attended by the minister 
of the town, the committee who engaged the 
teacher, and such of the parents as chose to come 
m. Very few, however, were sufficiently interested 
in the improvement of their children, to spend 
three uncomfortable hours in the hot and crowded 
school-room, listening to the same dull round of 
words, year after year. If the school had been 
under the care of a good instructor, all was well of 
course ; if a poor one, it was too late to help it. 
Or, perhaps, they thought "they could not aflford the 
time on a fair afternoon ; and, if the weather was 
stormy, it was rather more agreeable to stay at 
home; besides, "Nobody else will be there, and 
why should I go ? " Whether such were the re- 
flections of parents or not, scarcely more than half 
of them, at most, ever attended the examination. 
I do not recollect that the summer school was ex- 
amined at all. I know not the reason of this 
omission, unless it was that such had been the cus- 
tom from time immemorial. 



142 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

We shall suppose it to be the last day of the win- 
ter school. The scholars have on their better 
clothes, if their parents are somewhat particular, or 
if the everyday dress " looks quite too bad." The 
young ladies, especially, wear the next best gown, 
and a more cleanly and tastefully worked necker- 
chief. Their hair displays more abundant curls 
and a more elaborate adjustment. 

It is noon. The school-room is undergoing the 
operation of being swept as clean as a worn-out 
broom in the hands of one girl, and hemlock twigs 
in the hands of others, will permit. Whew — what 
a dust ! Alas for Mary's cape, so snow-white and 
smooth in the morning ! Hannah's curls, which 
lay so close to each other, and so pat and still on 
her temples, have got loose by the exercise, and 
have stretched themselves into the figure of half- 
straightened cork-screws, nearly unfit for service. 
The spirit of the house-wife dispossesses the bland 
and smiling spirit of the school-girl. The mascu- 
line candidates for matrimony can now give a 
shrewd guess who are endued with an innate pro- 
pensity to scold ; who will be Xantippes to their 
husbands, should they ever get their Cupid's nests 
made up again so as to catch them. " Be still, 
Sam, bringing in snow," screams Mary. "Get 
away boys, off out doors, or I'll sweep you into the 
fire," snaps out Hannah, as she brushes the urchins' 
legs with her hemlock. " There, take that," 
screeches Margaret, as she gives a provoking lubber 
a knock with the broom handle ; " there, take 



AS IT WAS. 143 

that, and keep your wet, dirty feet down off the 
seats." 

The sweeping and scolding are at length done. 
The girls are now brushing their clothes, by flap- 
ping handkerchiefs over themselves and each other. 
The dust is subsiding ; one can almost breathe 
again. The master has come, all so prim, with his 
best coat and a clean cravat ; and, may be, a collar 
is stiff and high above it. His hair is combed in 
its genteelest curvatures. He has returned earlier 
than usual, and the boys are cut short in their play, 
— the glorious fun of the last noon-time. But they 
must all come in. But what shall the visitors sit 
on ? '' Go up to Captain Clark's, and borrow some 
chairs," says the master. Half a dozen boys are 
off in a moment, and next, more than half a dozen 
chairs are sailing, swinging, and clattering through 
the air, and set in a row round the spelling-floor. 

The school are at length all seated at their books, 
in palpitating expectation. The master makes a 
speech on the importance of speaking up, '' loud 
and distinct," and of refraining from whispering, 
and all other things well known to be forbidden. 
The writing-books and ciphering manuscripts are 
gathered and piled on the desk, or the bench near 
it. '' Where is your manuscript, Margaret ?" " I 
carried it home last night." " Carried it home ! — 
what's that for?" " 'Cause I was ashamed on't — I 
haven't got half so far in 'rethmetic as the rest of 
the girls who cipher, I've had to stay at home so 
much." 



144 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



A heavy step is heard in the entry. All is hush- 
ed within. They do nothing but breathe. The 
door opens — it is nobody but one of the largest boys 
who went home at noon. There are sleigh-bells 
approaching, — hark, do they stop? yes, up in Capt. 
Clark's shed. Now there is another tread, then a 
distinct and confident rap. The master opens the 
door, and the minister salutes him, and, advancing, 
receives the simultaneous bows and courtesies of 
the awed ranks in front. He is seated in the most 
conspicuous and honorable place, perhaps in the 
magisterial desk. Then some of the neighbors 
scatter in, and receive the same homage, though it 
is proffered with a more careless action and aspect. 

Now commences the examination. First, the 
younger classes read and spell. Observe that little 
fellow, as he steps from his seat to take his place on 
the floor. It is his day of public triumph, for he 
is at the head ; he has been there the most times, 
and a ninepence swings by a flaxen string from his 
neck. His skin wants letting out, it will hardly 
hold the important young gentleman. His mother 
told him this morning, when he left home, ''to 
speak up like a minist t," and his shrill oratory is 
almost at the very pinnacle of utterance. 

The third class have read. They are now spell- 
ing. They are famous orthographers ; the might- 
iest words of the spelling colums do not intimidate 
them. Then come the numbci s^ the abbreviations, 
and the punctuation. Some of the little throats 
are almost choked by the hurried ejection of big 
words and stringy sentences. 



I 



AS IT WAS. 145 

The master has gone through with the several 
accomplishments of the class. They are about to 
take their seats. "Please to let them stand a few- 
moments longer, I should like to put out a few 
words to them, myself," says the minister. Now 
look out. They expect words as long as their 
finger, from the widest columns of the spelling- 
book, or perhaps such as are found only in the dic- 
tionary. " Spell wrist j''^ says he to the little swell- 
er at the head. " O, what an easy word !" r-i-s-t, 
wrist. It is not right. The next, the next — they 
all try, or rather do not attempt the word ; for if 
r-i-s-t does not spell wrist, they cannot conceive 
what does. " Spell ^o^^;^^, Anna." G-o-u-n-d. "O 
no, it is goimi, not gound. The next try." None 
of them can spell this. He then puts out penknife^ 
which is spelt without the k, and then andiron^ 
which his honor at the head rattles oflf in this way, 
*'h-a-n-d hand, i-u-r-n hand-iurn." 

The poor little things are confused as well as 
discomfited. They hardly know what it means. 
The teacher is disconcerted and mortified. It 
dawns on him, that, while he has been following 
the order of the book, and priding himself that so 
young scholars can spell such monstrous great 
words, — words which perhaps they will never use, 
they cannot spell the names of the most familiar 
objects. The minister has taught him a lesson. 

The Writing-books are now examined. The 
mighty pile is lifted from the desk, and scattered 
along through the hands of the visitors. Some are 
13 



146 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

commended for the neatness with which they have 
kept their manuscripts ; some, for improvement in 
writing ; of some, probably of the majority, is said 
nothing at all. 

'' Whew ! " softly breathed the minister, as he 
opened a writing-book, some of whose pages were 
a complete ink-souse. He looked on the outside, 
and Simon Patch was the name that lay sprawling 
in the dirt which adhered to the newspaper cover. 
Simon spied his book in the reverend gentleman's 
hands, and noticed his queer stare at it. The min- 
ister looked up ; Simon shrunk and looked down, 
for he felt that his eye was about to seek him. He 
gazed intensely in the book before him without 
seeing a word, at the same time earnestly sucking 
the pointed lapel of his Sunday coat. But Simon 
escaped without any audible rebuke. 

Now comes the arithmetical examination ; that 
is, the proficients in this branch are required to say 
the rules. Alas me ! 1 had no reputation at all in 
this science. I could not repeat more than half the 
rules 1 had been over, nor more than the half of 
that half in the words of the book, as others could. 
What shame and confusion of face were mine on 
the last day, when we came to be questioned in 
Arithmetic ! But when Mr. Ellis had his examina- 
tion, 1 looked up a little, and felt that I was not so 
utterly incompetent as my previous teachers, to- 
gether with myself, had supposed. 

Then came the display in Grammar, our knowl- 
edge of which is especially manifested in parsing. 
A piece is selected which we have parsed in the 



AS IT WAS. 147 

course of the school, and on which we are again 
drilled so as to become as familiar with the parts of 
speech, and the governments and agreements of 
which, as we are with the buttons and button-holes 
of our jackets. We appear, of course, amazingly- 
expert. 

We exhibited our talent at Reading, likewise, in 
passages selected for the occasion, and conned over, 
and read over, until the dullest might call all the 
words right, and the most careless mind all the 
"stops and marks." 

But this examination was a stupid piece of busi- 
ness to me, as is evident enough from this stupid 
account of it. The expectation and preparation 
were somewhat exhilarating, as I trust has been 
perceived ; but, as soon as the anticipated scene had 
commenced, it grew dull, and still more dull, just 
like this chapter. 

But let us finish this examination, now we are 
about it. Suppose it finished then. The minister 
remarks to the teacher, '' Your school appears very 
well, in general, sir ;" then he makes a speech, 
then a prayer, and his business is done. So is that 
of schoolmaster and school. ''You are dismissed," 
is uttered for the last time this season. It is almost 
dark, and but little time left for a last trip-up, snow- 
ball, or slide down hill. The little boys and girls, 
with their books and dinner baskets, ride home 
with their parents, if they happen to be there. 
The larger ones have some last words and laughs, 
together, and then they leave the Old School-house 
till December comes round again. 



148 



THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 



CHAPTER XXII. 

THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE AGAIN ITS APPEARANCE THE 

LAST WINTER — WHY SO LONG OCCUPIED A NEW ONE 

AT LAST. 

My first chapter was about the Old School-house : 
so shall be my last. The declining condition in 
which we first found it, has waxed into exceeding 
infirmity by the changes of thirteen years. After 
the summer school succeeding my thirteenth winter 
of district education, it was sold and carried piece- 
meal away, ceasing for ever from the form and 
name of school-house. 

I would have my readers see how the long-used 
and hard-used fabric appeared, and how near to dis- 
solution it came before the district could agree to 
accommodate their children with a new one. 

We will now suppose it is my last winter at our 
school. Here we are inside, let us look around a 
little. 

The long writing-benches arrest our attention as 
forcibly as any thing in sight. They were origi- 
nally of substantial plank, an inch and a half thick. 
And it is well that they were thus massive. No 
board of 'ordinary measure would have stood the 
hackings and he wings, the scrapings and borings, 



AS IT WAS. 149 

which have been inflicted on those sturdy plank. 
In the first place, the edge next the scholar is notch- 
ed from end to end, presenting an appearance some- 
thing like a broken-toothed mill-saw. Upon the 
upper surface, there has been carved, or pictured 
with ink, the likeness of all things in the heavens 
and on earth ever beheld by a country school-boy ; 
and sundry guesses at things he never did see. 
Fifty years has this poor timber been subjected to 
the knives of idlers, and almost the fourth of fifty 
I have hacked on it myself ; and by this last winter 
their width has become diminished nearly one- 
half. There are, moreover, innumerable writings 
on the benches and ceilings. On the boys' side 
were scribbled the names of the Hannahs, the 
Marys, and the Harriets, toward whom young hearts 
were beginning to soften in the first gentle meltings 
of love. One would suppose that a certain Harriet 
A., was the most distinguished belle the district has 
ever produced, from the frequency of her name on 
bench and wall. 

The cracked and patched and puttied windows 
are now still more diversified by here and there a 
square of board instead of glass. 

The master's desk is in pretty good order. The 
first one was knocked over in a noon-time scuffle, 
and so completely shattered as to render a new one 
necessary. This has stood about ten years. 

As to the floor, had it been some winters we 
could not have seen it without considerable scraping 
away of dust and various kinds of litter ; for a 
13* 



150 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

broom Avas not always provided, and boys wonld 
not wallow in the snow after hemlock, and sweep- 
ing could not so well be done with a stick. This 
winter, however, Mr. Ellis takes care that the floor 
shall be visible the greater part of the time. It is 
rough with sundry patches of board nailed over 
chinks and knot-holes made by the wear and tear 
of years. 

Now we will look at the fire-place. One end of 
the hearth has sunk an inch and a half below the 
floor. There are crevices between some of the tiles, 
into which coals of fire sometimes drop and make 
the boys spring for snow. The andirons have 
each lost a fore-foot, and the office of the important 
member is supplied by bricks which had been dis- 
lodged from the chimney-top. The fire-shovel has 
acquired by accident or age a venerable stoop. 
The tongs can no longer be called a pair, for the 
lack of one of the fellow-limbs. The bar of iron 
running from jamb to jamb in front, — how it is 
bent and sinking in the middle, by the pressure of 
the sagging fabric above ! Indeed the whole chim- 
ney is quite ruinous. The bricks are loose here 
and there in the vicinity of the fire-place ; and the 
chimney-top has lost so much of its cement that 
every high wind dashes off" a brick, rolling and 
sliding on the roof, and then tumbling to the 
ground, to the danger of cracking whatever heed- 
less skull may happen in the way. 

The window-shutters, after having shattered the 
glass by the slams of many years, have broken 



AS IT WAS. 151 

their own backs at length. Some have fallen to 
the ground, and are going the way of all things 
perishable. Others hang by a single hinge, which 
is likely to give way at the next high gale, and 
consign the dangling shutter to the company of its 
fellows below. 

The clap-boards are here and there loose, and 
dropping one by one from their fastenings. One 
of these thin and narrow appendages, sticking by a 
nail at one end, and loose and slivered at the other, 
sends forth the most ear-rending music to the skill- 
ful touches of the North-west. In allusion to the 
soft-toned instrument of iEolus, it may be termed 
the Borean harp. Indeed, so many are the ave- 
nues by which the wind passes in and out, and so 
various are the notes, according as the rushing air 
vibrates a splinter, makes the window clatter, whis- 
tles through a knot-hole, and rumbles like big base 
down the chimney, that the edifice may be imagin- 
ed uproarious winter's Panharmonicon,* played upon 
in turn by all the winds. 

Such is the condition of the Old School-house, 
supposing it to be just before we leave it forever, at 
the close of my thirteenth and last winter at our 
district school. It has been resorted to summer 
after summer, and winter after winter, although 
the observation of parents and the senssrtions of 
children have long given evidence that it ought to 
be abandoned. 



* The Panharmonicon is a large instrument in which the peculiar 
tones of several smaller instruments are combined. 



152 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 

At every meeting on school affairs that has been 
held for several years, the question of a new school- 
house has been discussed. All agree on the urgent 
need of one, and all are willing to contribute their 
portion of the wherewith ; but when they attempt 
to decide on its location, then their harmonious 
action is at an end. All know that this high bleak 
hill, the coldest spot within a mile, is not the place ; 
it would be stupid folly to put it here. At the foot 
of the hill, on either side, is as snug and pleasant a 
spot as need be. But the East-enders will not per- 
mit its location on the opposite side, and the West- 
enders are as obstinate on their part. Each division 
declares that it will secede and form a separate dis- 
trict should it be carried further off, although in this 
case they must put up with much cheaper teachers, 
or much less schooling, or submit to twice the 
taxes. 

Thus they have tossed the ball of discussion, and 
sometimes hurled that of contention, back and forth, 
year after year, to just about as much profit as their 
children have flung snow-balls in play, or chips and 
cakes of ice when provoked. At length. Time, the 
final decider of all things material, wearied with 
their jars, is likely to end them by tumbling the 
old ruin about their ears. 

Months have passed ; it is near winter again. 
There is great rejoicing among the children, satis- 
faction among the parents, harmony between the 
two Ends. A new school-house has been erected 



AS IT WAS. 153 

at last — indeed it has. A door of reconciliation and 
mutual adjustment was opened in the following 
manner. 

That powerfiil-to-doj but tardy personage, the 
Public, began to be weary of ascending and de- 
scending Captain Clark's hill. He began to calcu- 
late the value of time and horse-flesh. One day it 
occurred to him that it would be as '' cheap, and 
indeed much cheaper," to go round this hill at the 
bottom, than to go round it over the top ; for it is 
just as far from side to side of a ball in one direction 
as in another, and this was a case somewhat similar. 
He perceived that there would be no more lost in 
the long run by the expense of carrying the road an 
eighth of a mile to the south, and all on level 
ground, than there would be by still wasting the 
breath of horse and the patience of man in panting 
up and tottering down this monstrous hill. It 
seemed as if he had been blind for years, not to 
have conceived of the improvement before. No 
time was to be lost now. He lifted up his many- 
tongued voice, and put forth his many-handed 
strength ; and, in the process of a few months, a 
road was constructed, curving round the south side 
of the aforesaid hill, which, after all, proved to be 
but a few rods longer from point to point than the 
other. 

The district were no longer at variance about the 
long-needed edifice. The aforementioned improve- 
ment had scarcely been decided on, before every 
one perceived how the matter might be settled. A 



154 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL AS IT WAS. 

school-meeting was soon called, and it was unani- 
mously agreed to erect a new school-house on the 
new road, almost exactly opposite the old spot, and 
as equidistant from the two Ends, it was believed, 
as the equator is from the poles. 

Here Mr. Henry taught the District School some- 
what as it should be ; and it has never since been 
kept as it was. 



A SUPPLICATION 



PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES. 



The follo^^'ing article was first published in a Boston newspaper, 
about fifteen years ago. It was afterwards republished in the 
Common School Journal. Its object was not to exercise a useless 
ingenuity in a play upon words, but to attract a more particular, 
and peradventure, a corrective attention to prevalent inaccuracies 
of speech. These errors, more or less, still linger upon the lip. 
Another repubhcation, therefore, may possibly be of some little use. 
At any rate, the piece will contribute a distinct variety in making 
up the volume. 



i 



A SUPPLICATION. 



About sixty thousand Slaves, owned by the 
People of the United States, make the following 
supplication to their masters, not for emancipatiofij 
but for the amelioration of the condition of certain 
individuals of their race. 

Most sovereign, rightful, and excellent Mas- 
ters, — We are the English Language, — your law- 
ful and perpetual bond-servants, whose names and 
origin, characters and duties, are so faithfully ex- 
hibited, in Noah Webster's great Dictionary. By 
far the largest part of us have received nothing but 
the kindest usage from our owners, from time 
immemorial. Some thousands of us, indeed, were 
it possible, might die of having nothing to do but 
sleep, shut up in the dormitory of the Dictionary, 
or in the composition of some most learned, or most 
silly book, which the mass of the people never 
open. But of this we do not complain. Nor do 
we account it much of an evil, that certain Yankees 
make us weary, with the monstrously long drawl 
14 



158 A SUPPLICATION. 

with which they articulate us into use. Nor do 
we cry out against the paint\il clipping, cutting-up, 
and shattering-to-pieceS; given us by the AlVican 
race ; — tor we serve them as faithtully as we do 
their white fellow-mortals, — holding that, as it 
regards all the relations of human beings to us, all 
men -'are born free and equal." 

But now we humbly pray that you will hear 
what we do complain of. We complain, that cer- 
tain of our brethren are exceedingly abused, and 
made wretched, by some thousands, and perhaps 
millions, of our owners. Their piteous groans 
have shocked our ears, — their unretrieved suti'erings 
have pained our sympathizing hearts, for many 
years. We can endure no longer; — we /tim^/ speak. 
Your ancient servants come, then, supplicating you 
to take measures for the relief of the sufferings of 
the individuals ci our number, whose names and 
particular subjects of complaint shall now be enu- 
merated, proceeding in alphabetical order. 

Arithmetic, — that accurate calculator, indispensa- 
ble to this mighty and money-making nation, 
grievously complains that he is obliged to work for 
thousands without the use of A-head, and deprived 
of one of his two is. Here is a picture of his 
mutilated form, — Bet kinetic ! 

Attacked, — an important character, that figures so 
gloriously in military despatches, and is so necessary 
in medical reports, — is forced, by many, to the use 
of t, more than his constitution will admit. He 
czmuot perform his necessary business, you know, 



A SUPPLICATION. 159 

without the use of if, twice during every job, — but 
to have it forced into him three times, causes a 
change in his constitution and appearance, which 
he cannot comfortably bear. See how Attacked is 
altered by more t than he wants, — AttackTed. 

There is another poor fellow, who has a similar 
affliction, — Across. He is forced to the use of t, 
when his constitution cannot bear it at all. See 
what a spectacle a little t makes of him, — Acrosst. 

That most excellent friend and profitable servant 
of the Working-men's party, Earn^ complains that 
those whom he serves the best, deprive him of 
what little e's his laborious condition demands. 
See what Earn is brought to by such hard treat- 
ment, — Aim. 

That necessary attendant on every messsenger, — 
Errand, is in the same state of suffering, from the 
same cause. Errand is made Arrant^ which is 
"notorious, infamous, and ill," (and of course ''not 
to be endured,'') as you will perceive by looking in 
the Dictionary. 

Andiron — avers that he is willing to bear any 
burden that will not break his back, and stand any 
fire that will not melt him down, or burn the house 
up; but he cannot, stand it with any comfort or pa- 
tience, to be breathed upon by that sneaking whis- 
perer, /i, in this manner, — handiron. 

After — is willing to linger behind every body 
else in his business ; but it is a miserable fate to be 
deprived of so large a portion of his small energy 
in this way, — Arter. 



160 A SUPPLICATION. 

''Go arte?' the cows, Tom," says Ma'am Milk- 
moolly. " I move that we adjourn to arternoon,^^ 
says Squire Goodman, in the Legislature. 

Hear, also, how that entirely dilTerent character, 
and bold goer>ahead, growls as he passes on, — Be- 
fore. " I will go forward and do my duty as long 
as any part of me is left sound ; but my well-being 
is dreadfully affected by a great many people whom 
I serve, — as you cannot but perceive," — A/ore. 

Bellows, — that excellent household servant, — 
says he has often had his nose stopped up by ashes, 
and has wheezed with the asthma for months, but 
all these afflictions are nothing to usage like this, — 
Belluses. 

Bachelor — is exceedingly sensitive about what is 
said of him in the presence of the ladies. He is 
shockingly mortified at being called Baichelder. 
To be sure, he is a batch-e/c/er than he ought to be, 
regarding the comfort of maidens and the good of 
his country ; but he is an odd fellow, and wants his 
own way. He is almost tempted to destroy him- 
self by taking that deadly poison to his nature, — a 
wife, — in order to be relieved from his mortifi- 
cation. 

Boil — is at the hot duty of keeping the pot going, 
and sometimes it is hard work ; however, he com- 
plains not of this ; but poor Boil has had the jaun- 
dice, and all other liver complaints, for years, and is 
blubbering like a baby — all in consequence of this, 
viz : about nine-tenths of the cooks in America, 
and two-thirds of the eaters, call him Bile. 



I 



A SUPPLICATION. 161 

Cellar — is the lowest character in the house, and 
takes more wine and cider than any other, and is 
the biggest sauce-box in the world. Yet, with all 
the propriety of the parlor, and a sobriety, as if not 
a drop of intoxicating liquor was in him, and with 
a civility, remarkable in one usually so sauce-y^ he 
now implores you to remember that he is a Cellar, 
and not a Suller. 

Chimney. — Here is a character who ten thousand 
times would have taken fire at an affront, were it 
not for the danger of burning up the houses and 
goods of his abusers, — faithful servant and tender- 
hearted creature that he is ! He is content to do 
the hottest, hardest, and dirtiest work in the world. 
You may put as much green wood upon his back 
as you please, and make him breathe nothing but 
smoke, and swallow nothing but soot, and stand 
over steam, till pots and kettles boil no more ; all 
these are ease, pleasantness, and peace, to abuse like 
this, — Chimbly. 

Dictionary — rages with all the rough epithets in 
gentlemanly or vulgar use ; and then he melts into 
the most tender and heart-moving words of en- 
treaty, and, in fact, tries all the various powers of 
the English language, (for, wonderful scholar ! he 
has it all at his tongue's end.) Still further, 
mighty lexicographic champions, such as Dr. Web- 
ster, Sheridan, Walker, Perry, Jones, Fulton and 
Knight, and Jameson, besides numerous other infe- 
rior defenders, — even hosts of spelling-book makers, 
have all exerted their utmost in vain, to save him 
14* 



162 A SUPPLICATION. 

from the ignominy of being — Dicksonary. Dic- 
tionary is one of the proudest characters in our 
mighty nation, in respect to his birth and ancestry ; 
but, used as he is, nobody would dream what his 
father's, name is. Be it known, then, that Dic- 
tionary is the son of Diction^ who is the Uneal 
descendant of that most renowned, and most elo- 
quent Roman orator, Dico. 

End — is uttering the most dolorous groans. 
There are certain individuals who are always killing 
him without putting him to an e7id. See what a 
torture he is put to — eend^ eend. 

Farther^ — that friend of the progress and im- 
provements of this ahead-going age, stops by the 
way to ask relief. He is ready to further all the 
innumerable plans for the benefit of man, except 
when he is brought back in this way — Furder. 
Then he is so completely nullified, that he can fur- 
ther the march of mind and matter no more. 

General^ — that renowned and glorifying charac- 
ter, whose fame has resounded through the world, 
is dishonored and made gloryless by many a brave 
man as well as chicken-heart. He has now in- 
trenched himself in this position, viz.: that he will 
no longer magnify many little militia-folks into 
mightiness, unless they forbear to call him Gineral. 
It is not only a degradation, but it is an offence to 
his associations. Gin — G/w-er-al ; TFme-er-al, and 
much more, Water-al, would be more glory-giving 
in these un-treating, or rather, re-treating times of 
t'Cmperance. 



A SUPPLICATION. 163 

Gave^ — that generous benefactor, that magnani- 
mous philantliropist, is ahnost provoked. He de- 
clares that he has a good mind, for once, to demand 
back his donations from the temper-trying mis- 
callers. I gave a thousand dollars, this very day, 
towards the completion of Bunker-Hill Monument. 
But don't say of me, he gin. I never gin a cent 
in my life. 

Get, — that enterprising and active character, who 
generally, in this country, helps Give and Gave to 
the whole wherewithal of their beneficence, and 
gains, for old Keep, all his hoarded treasures, and is 
a staunch friend of all the temperate and industrious 
of the Working-men's party, — Get stops to com- 
plain, that some of those he serves the best call him 
— Git. And he is very reluctant to get along about 
his business, till some measures are taken to prevent 
the abuse. Get is now waiting, ye workies of all 
professions ; what say ? Will you still, with a 
merciless i, make him Git 1 

Gum — is always on the jaw, that he is so often 
called Gooiah, in spite of his teeth. 

Gown, — that very ladylike personage, is sighing 
away at the deplorable de-formiiy that (ie-spoils her 
beauty in the extreme, as is c?e-veloped in the fol- 
lowing de-tail, Gown-d. Oh ! ye lords of lan- 
guage ! if ye have any gallantry, come to the de- 
liverance of the amiable gown, that she may shake 
off this D-pendant. 

Handkerchief, — your personal attendant, is also 
distressed in the extreme. She is kept by many 



164 A SUPPLICATION. 

from her chief end in the following cruel manner — 
Handker-c\\F.K. 

January^ — that old Roman, is storming away in 
the most bitter wrath ; shaking about his snowy- 
locks, and tearing away at his icy beard, like a 
madman. "Blast 'em," roars his Majesty of mid- 
winter, ''don't they know any better than to call 
me Jimiary 7 " They say, " It is a terrible cold 
Jmuary," — then, '' It is the Jenuary thaw." Oh ! 
ye powers of the air ! help me to freeze and to 
melt them by turns, every day, for a month, until 
they shall feel the difference between the vowel a, 
and the vowel i. My name is January. 

Kettle^ — that faithful kitchen-servant, is boiling 
with rage. He is willing to be hung in trammels, 
and be obliged to get his living by hook and by 
crook, and be hauled over the coals every day, and 
take even pot-luck for his fare, — and, indeed, to be 
called black by the pot ; — all this he does not 
care a snap for ; but to be called Kittle — Kittle ! 
" Were it not for the stiffness of my limbs, I would 
soon take leg-Z^a^7," says the fiery hot Kettle. 

Little — allows that he is a very inferior character, 
but avers that he is not least in the great nation of 
words. He cannot be more^ and he will not be less. 
Prompted by a considerate self-respect, he informs 
us that he is degraded to an unwarrantable diminu- 
tiveness by being called — Leetle. " A leetle too 
much," says one. " A leetle too far," says another. 
" A mighty leetle thing," cries a third. Please to 
call respectable adjectives by their right names, is 
the polite request of your humble servant, Little. 



A SUPPLICATION. 165 

Lie, — that verb of so quiet a disposition by 
nature, is roused to complain that his repose is 
exceedingly disturbed in the following manner. 
Almost the whole American nation, learned as well 
as unlearned, have the inveterate habit of saying — 
Lay, when they mean, and might say — Lie. 
'' Lay down, and lay abed, and let it /ay," is truly 
a national sin against the laws of grammar. Lie 
modestly inquires, whether even the coZ/e^'e-learned 
characters would not be benefited by a few days' 
attendance in a good Common School. Lie is 
rather inclined to indolence, and has a very strong 
propensity to sleep ; but he would not be kept in 
perpetual dormancy for the lack of use. Please to 
employ me on all proper occasions, gentlemen and 
ladies ; — here I Lie. 

Liberty — is an all-glorious word, the pride and 
boast of our country. He has been the orator's 
Bucephalus ; his very war-horse, with neck "clothed 
with thunder." Oh ! how the noble creature is de- 
graded ! He is made by many a boasting republican, 
in this land of the free, to pace in this pitiful man- 
ner — Lihety — Libety ! ! Ye sons and daughters of 
the Revolutionists, if you really aim at your coun- 
try's glory, and the world's best good, give the r 
the heavy tramp of a battle-host. Not Libety — but 
LibeRty. 

Mrs., — that respectable abbreviation, is exceed- 
ingly grieved at the indignity she suffers. The 
good ladies, whom she represents, are let down from 
the matronly dignity, to which she would hold them, 



166 A SUPPLICATION. 

even to the nn-married degradation of Miss ; — and 
this in the United States, where matrimony is so 
universally honored and sought after. She desires 
it to be universally published, that 31iss belongs 
only to ladies who have never been blessed with 
husbands ; and that 3frs. is the legitimate, and 
never-to-be-omitted title of those who have been 
raised to superior dignity by Hy-inen — (high-men.) 
N. B. Mistress, for which Mrs. stands in writing, 
is generally contracted in speaking jto, or of, ladies, 
by leaving out the letters T and R, in this manner, 
— Missies. Oh ! ye " bone and muscle of the 
country ! " how can ye refuse to comply with so 
gentle and lady-like a request ? We pray you 
that from the moment the sacred knot is tied, 
"until death shall part," you will say — Missies. 
(Oh ! how honored your own name to have such a 
title prefixed !) " Missies So-or-so, in what man- 
ner can I best contribute to your real and permanent 
happiness ? " That's a good husband ! ! 

Oil, — you all know, has a disposition, smooth to 
a proverb ; — but he is, to say the least, in great 
danger of losing his fine, easy temper, by being 
treated in the altogether improper manner that you 
here behold — He ! Ile ! Poor Oil has been for cen- 
turies crying out O ! O ! O! ! as loudly and roughly 
as his melodious but sonorous voice will permit ; 
but they will not hear ; they still call him — Ile. 

Potatoes, — (those most indispensable servants to 
all dimier-eating Americans, and the benevolent 
furnishers of ^'' daily hread,''^ and, indeed, the whole 



A SUPPLICATION. 167 

living to Pat-land's poor,) — Potatoes^ are weej)ing 
with all their eyes, at the agony to which they are 
put by thousands. They are most unfeelingly 
mangled, top and toe, in this manner, — Taiers. 
Notwithstanding their extremities, in the most 
mealy -mouihed manner they exclaim, — Po ! Po ! 
gentlemen and ladies! pray spare us a head, and 
you may bruise our toes in welcome. Still, you 
must confess that Potaters is not so sound and lohole- 
some as Potatoes. 

Point — allows that in some respects he is of very 
minute importance; but asserts that in others he is 
of the greatest consequence, as in an argument, for 
instance. He is, in zeal, the sharpest of all those 
who have entered into the present subject of Ame- 
lioration. Point is determined to prick forward in 
the cause, till he shall be no longer blunted and 
turned away from his aim, and robbed of his very 
nature, in ihQ^measure you here perceite — Pint. 
Do not disappm^ your injured servant, indulgent 
masters. 

Philadelphia — takes off his broad-brim, and, in 
the softest tones of brotherly love, implores the 
people of the United States to cease calling him by 
that harsh, horrid, and un-brotherly name, — Felly- 
delphy. It deprives him of his significance, and 
ancient and honorable lineage, as every Greek 
scholar well knows. " Oh ! " cries the city of 
"Brotherly Love," in plaintive, but kindly accents, 
— " do understand the meaning — behold the amia- 
bleness — hearken to the melody, and respect the 
sincerity of Philadelphia.^'' 



168 



A SUPPLICATION. 



Poetry. — What a halo of glory around this daugh- 
ter of Geuiiis, and descendant of Heaven ! Behold 
how slie is rent asunder by many a pitiful proser, 
and made to come short of due honor. Potry — 
Apollo and the Muses know nothing about Potry ! 

Quench^ — that renowned extinguisher, whom all 
the world can't hold a candle to, is himself very 
much put out, now and then, from this cause, — 
some people permit that crooked and hissing serpent 
S, to get before him, and coil round him, while he 
is in the hurry of duty, as you here see — S quench ; 
and sometimes they give him a horrid black I, thus 
— Squinch. 

Rather — is universally known to be very nice in 
his preferences, and to be almost continually occu- 
pied in expressing them. Be it as universally 
known, then, that he is disgusted beyond all bearing 
at being called — Ruther. Oh, how, from time im- 
memorial, has this choice character suffered from 
the interference of U, ye masters ! 

Sauce — has a good many elements in him, and, 
above all, a proper share of self-respect. He thinks 
he has too much spice and s]:)irit to be considered 
such a flat as this indicates, — Sass. 

Saucer — complains that he is served the same 
sass. Between them both, unless there is some- 
thing done, there may be an overflow of sauciness 
to their masters. 

Scarce — is not a very frequent complainant of 
anything, — but he is now constrained to come for- 
ward and pour out more plentifully than common. 



A SUPPLICATION. 109 

He complains that certain Nippies ^ both male and 
female, and hosts of honest imitators, call him 
Scurce, thinking it the very tip of gentility. He 
will detain you no longer, gentlemen and ladies, for 
he prefers to be always — Scarce. 

Such — does not complain of mistaken politeness, 
but of low and vulgar treatment like this — Sich. 

Since — has been crying out against the times, 
from the period of his birth into English. It is 
abominable that a character of such vast compre- 
hension, should be so belittled. He embraces all 
antiquity, goes back beyond Adam, yea, as far 
back into the unbeginningness as you could think 
in a million of years, and unimaginably further. 
And, Oh ! his hoary head is bowed down with sor- 
row at being called by two-thirds of the American 
people, Sence. It is hoped that all the Future and 
all the Past will be — Since. 

Spectacles^ — those twin literati, who are ever 
poring over the pages of learning, raise eyes of sup- 
plication. They say that they cannot look with 
due re'spect upon certain elderly people, who pro- 
nounce them more unlettered than they really are, 
as you may perceive without looking with their in- 
terested eyes — Spetacles. Venerable friends, pray 
c us, c us, — and give us our due in the matter of 
letters, and we shall be not only Spectacles to see 
with, but to be seen — spectacles of gratitude. 

Sit — has been provoked to stand up in his own 
behalf, although he is of sedentary habits, and is 
sometimes inclined to be idle. He declares he has 
15 



170 A SUPPLICATION. 

too much pride and spirit to let that more active 
personage — Set — do all his work for him. " Set 
still," says the pedagogue to his pupils — and parents 
to their children. " Set down, sir," — say a thou- 
sand gentlemen, and some famously learned ones, 
to their visiters. " The coat sets well," affirms the 
tailor. Now all this does not sit well on your com- 
plainant, and he sets up his Ebenezer, that he 
should like a little more to do, — especially in the 
employ of college-learned men, and also of the 
teachers of American youth. These distinguished 
characters ought to sit down, and calculate the im- 
mense effect of their example in matters of speech. 

Sat — makes grievous complaint that he is called 
Sot. He begs all the world to know that he hath 
not redness of eyes, nor rumminess nor brandiness 
of breath, nor flamingness of nose, that he should 
be degraded by the drunkard's lowest and last 
name — Sot. The court sat, — not sot, — the com- 
pany sat down to dinner — not sot down ; but ^^ver- 
bam SAT," if English may be allowed to speak Latin. 

Shut. — This is a person of some importance ; 
and, although your slave, is a most exclusive char- 
acter, as is said of the ultra-fashionables. He is, 
indeed, the most decisive and unyielding exclusive 
in the world. He keeps the outs, out, and the ins, 
in, both in fashionable and political life. He is of 
most ancient, as well as of most exquisite pretensions, 
— for he kept the door of Noah's ark tight against 
the flood. Now this stiflT old aristocrat is made to 
appear exceedingly flat, silly, and undignified, by 



A SUPPLICATION. 171 

being called, by sundry persons, — Shet. ^^ Shet the 
door," says old Grandsire Grumble, of a cold, windy 
day. ^^ Shet your books," says the schoolmaster, 
when he is about to hear the urchins spell. ^^ Shet 
up, you saucy blockhead," cries he, to young Inso- 
lence. This is too bad ! It is abominable ! a 
schoolmaster, the appointed keeper of orthographi- 
cal and orthoepical honor, — letting fall the well- 
bred and lofty-minded — Shut — from his guardian 
lips, in the shape of Shct. Oh ! the plebeian ! 
Faithless and unfit pedagogue ! ! He ought to be 
banished to Shet-land, where by day he should bat- 
tle with Boreas, and teach A B C to the posterity of 
Triptolemus Yellowley's^ ass ; and where by night 
his bedchamber should be the un-shut North, — his 
bed the summit of a snow-drift, — his sheets nothing 
but arctic mists, — and his pillow the fragment of an 
iceberg ! ! Away with the traitor to >S'Ae^land ! O 
most merciful American masters and mistresses ! 
Shut has no relief or safety from the miserableness 
of Shet J but in U. 

Told — is a round, sounding preterite, that is real 
music in a singing-school, — it will bear such a 
round-mouthed thunder of voice. He feels the 
dignity of his vocation, and asks not to be kept out 
of use by such bad grammar as this — Telled. " He 
telled me so-and-so." Pshaw ! that renowned talk- 
er and servant of old Peter Parley, Tell, declares 
that no one has ever derived existence from him by 

* A character in one of Scott's novels. 



1''2 A SUPPLICATION. 

the name of — Telled. Pray, masters and mistresses, 
don't now forget what yon have been — Told. 

Yes, — that good-natnred personage, affirms that 
were he not of so complying a disposition, he 
would henceforth be no to every body who should 
call him — Yis. To this pleasant hint, ye kindly 
ones, you cannot but say, Yes — Yes ! ! 

Finally^ hearken ! There is a voice from the 
past. It is the complaint of departing Yesterday. 
He cries aloud — Give ear, O, To-day, and hear, 
hear, O, To-morrrow ! Never, never more, call me 
Yisterday ! 

We have thus presented you. Sovereign Owners, 
with the complaints and groans of a considerable 
number of our race. There are, doubtless, many 
others, who are also in a state of suffering, but who 
have uncommon fortitude, or too much modesty, to 
come forward publicly, and make known their trials 
to our whole assembled community. Sliould the 
abuse of any such happen to be known to you at 
any time, we pray that the same consideration may 
be given to them as to the rest. Your supplicants 
fear that they have wearied your patience. Never- 
theless, we must venture a little further in our poor 
address. Please, then, to lend us your indulgence, 
a few moments longer. 

There is one family in the country, of whom it 
is difficult for your supplicants to speak with any 
degree of calmness, or with that charity proper to 
be exercised towards frail human nature. We mean 
the Downing family. There is no abuse of Ian- 



A SUPPLICATION. 



173 



guage too gross for them. They torture words into 
such unnatural shapes that the stretchings and 
disjoin tings of a Catholic Inquisition would be a 
pleasure in comparison. They make short, long, 
and long, short, without mercy. Oh ! what agony 
in their spelling ! An ignorant child might mangle 
us in orthography, with innocence, as he might 
stick pins through flies, or pull their wings off, not 
dreaming of the torture he inflicts; but when a 
man, — a statesman, — a military man, and a Great 
man, like the indomitable, the super-heroic and 
immortally renowned Jack Downing, is thus bar- 
barous and butcherly on the servants of his lips and 
pen, it is 

" Above all Greek, above all Roman fame" 

in the treatment of slaves. But we will not dwell 
on the misdoings of the Major, in a vain spirit of 
vindictiveness. He is dead and gone, according to 
the record of the Portland Courier, ''away down in 
Maine." But, alas ! his works remain, dissemina- 
ting their Vandal influence. Therefore, we ear- 
nestly entreat the free, and ought-to-be-enlightened 
people of the United States, to arise, all as one, in 
this great cause of Letters^ and hunt up and gather 
together all the writings of said Jack Downing, and 
make ashes of them, to be trodden under foot, so as 
never more to come near any body's head in the 
shape and quality of Letters. We entreat, also, 
that the similar writings of his relations, — " Sargent 
Joel," and the rest,— and all other /Miterati of like 
15* 



174 A SUPPLICATION. 

Stamp, may be put, ashes to ashes, with the Major's. 
Still further, in behalf of sound learning and our- 
selves, we beg that all remaining members of the 
Downing family, may be sought out by the pro- 
tecting hand of Public Justice, and hurled into that 
original nothingness, from which, without father or 
mother, they rose. Or, if the following process 
shall be deemed of greater utility, we desire that it 
may be adopted instead, viz : — Let all parents and 
school-teachers take the afore-mentioned //-litera- 
ture, and point out to their children and pupils all 
the abuses of good grammar and correct spelling 
therein to be found. Let these abuses be made a 
sign and a warning to them, never to be guilty of 
the same. Let this be done, and we will cease 
from our maledictions on the Downingville heroes 
and heroines. Yea, we prefer that the last sugges- 
tion should be carried into effect. Let the Major, 
the Sargent, Ezekiel Bigelow, and all the rest of 
them, live in their works. Who knows but that 
they are even more beneficent and wise than the 
world and ourselves have ever dreamed. On reflec- 
tion, we are more and more inclined to the opinion, 
that we have been designedly abused in said 
writings, on purpose to excite public attention and 
commiseration towards similar abuses experienced 
'by us, every day, from thousands and indeed 
millions of others in this country. If this after- 
thought be true, we most cordially take back what- 
ever of severity we may have indulged towards 
these deep-planning benefactors. We cannot but 



A SUPPLICATION. 175 

entertain agreeable anticipations. From the un- 
found boundary of remotest Maine ; yea, from the 
furthermost point of ''Away down East," to the 
Southwesternmost corner of that jETi^rra/i-Land, 
called. Texas, — we extend our visions of ameliora- 
tion. We behold pedagogues and parents making 
use of the Downing writings as a text-book, where- 
by to illustrate the bad usage of their faithful 
servants, ourselves. Or at least we behold them 
watching the bad habits of their own lips, and most 
sedulously correcting the bad habits of the young as 
often as they may appear. Now, Sovereign Masters 
and Mistresses, and Rightful Owners, shall these 
visions of hope be realized ? Shall the condition of 
our suffering brethren be ameliorated ? Shall the 
era of good grammar, correct spelling, and proper 
pronunciation, be hastened forward by some be- 
nevolent exertions? Shall the present abuses be 
transmitted to the future or not ? Shall the Golden 
Age of Speech speedily come, and last evermore ? 

That such improvement in their condition may 
be vouchsafed, is the humble prayer of your sup- 
plicants ; — all whose names, being too numerous to 
be here subscribed, may be found recorded in 
Webster's great Dictionary. 



A TRAVELER'S STORY, 



PERUSAL OF PARENTS. 



A TRAVELER'S STORY. 



A GREAT mistake is often committed by parents 
in withholding their patronage from schools at 
home, close by their own doors, and giving it to 
those further off, whose merits, or rather demerits, 
they are not sufficiently acquainted with. " 'Tis 
distance lends enchantment to the view," and 
oftentimes, distance only. How often are the 
young sent to some boarding school, and thereby 
exposed to serious physical and moral dangers, 
simply because the seminary, as it is called, is 
fashionable, or is seen through the magnifying me- 
dium of a swelling newspaper advertisement, or 
the extravagant puffery of the personal but ignorant 
friends of the principal of the establishment. There 
are, no doubt, many excellent institutions of the 
kind referred to, and youth, at a proper age, may be 
sent to them with advantage ; but I think that 
younger children should be kept at school near 
home, if the school is at all worthy of patronage. 
If such a one is not to be found, then let parents 
spare no time or money in endeavoring to make the 



180 A traveler's story. 

private or public school of their neighborhood 
worthy of receiving their precious offspring. 

But my present purpose is not to write a disser- 
tation, but to tell a story illustrative of parental 
error. 

I was about leaving one of the smallest cities of 
our country in the three o'clock stage, on a clear 
summer morning. The agent's man, accompanying 
the driver to pick up the passengers, carelessly in- 
formed me, as I was about to take my seat, that 
there was a young lady in the stage, going about 

fifty miles, whom her father, Mr. , wished me 

to have a little care of on the way. I was some- 
what surprised, for I had never heard of either, be- 
fore. It seems that the father had been to the 
stage office and learned that a gentleman, and one 
only, was traveling in the direction his daughter 
was to go, and had such confidence in his integrity, 
as to send his request through a second, and even 
third, person. It occurred to me, that most careful 
parents would have done the errand directly to a 
stranger, even at the expense of losing some hours' 
sleep. 

On entering the stage, my only fellow-travelers 
appeared to be three females, hidden from distinct 
view in the more than twilight darkness of the 
back seat, one of them seeming of the stature of a 
little girl. One of the two others I supposed to be 
my confiding and confided protege. But not hav- 
ing a direct introduction, I waited for the plainer 
daylight, to make us mutually acquainted. It was 



A traveler's story. 181 

truly a pleasant incident to a solitary man, hun- 
dreds of miles from his home, to be intrusted with 
such a charge. The fine spirits inspired by the 
fresh beautiful morning, were rendered still more 
buoyant by anticipations of agreeable companion- 
ship. A rare chance, thought I, to set my face 
homeward with a summer's day peeping and blush- 
ing upon me, and a young lady, withal, to shed 
brighter and rosier beams from life's morning coun- 
tenance. What delightful chit-chat, too, for these 
fifty long miles ! I shall pretty soon have more 
touching and lasting music than the passing twitter 
of these early birds. Intelligent, sociable womaa 
is a warbler who will not take to silence with those 
of the bush, but will warble the day through ; at 
least, I have seen and heard some such, and I trust 
here is the like, nestling in the corner back of me. 
Conjecture was on tiptoe ; indeed, I began to grow 
quite romantic about the personage whom the 
friendly light would soon present to my acquaint- 
ance. Well, we had passed the city borders, and 
the opening day in the open country had sufficient- 
ly dispelled the darkness of the curtained vehicle ; 
so I turned round, to see what sort of light might 
be reflected from the countenances on the hitherto 
mysterious back seat. And now, behold, ensconced 
in the two corners were the wrinkled faces, and 
crisped forms, and chocolate-colored dresses, of two 
quite elderly women. The fathers of these daugh- 
ters had long been in their last sleep, so it could not 
be one of them whose parent had intrusted her to 
16 



182 A traveler's story. 

my honest care. But between these monuments of 
the past sat a little miss of ten or twelve years of 
age. Soj here must be my charge, whom my fancy 
had been romancing about, and comparing to all 
that was fresh and beautiful in the young day. 
Her cheek truly emulated the dawn, and her blue 
eye out-beamed the morning star; and a few years' 
advance among the teens, might make her all that 
one could wish as delightful companionship on the 
road ; but here was a mere child, and my duty was 
probably to see that her inexperience did not betray 
her into danger, and to keep her from crying, to her 
journey's end. " Well, miss," said I, after a civil 
nod to the elderlies, '' so you are the young lady 
whom I have been requested to have the care of on 
the way ?" " Yes, sir," replied she, " I am going 

as far as , to school. I have been spending the 

vacation at home. Father found that a gentleman 
was going in the stage, and he thought it might be 
well to send word to him about me. Had there 
been nobody going this morning, I should have 
gone fifty miles all alone." " Pretty young, seems to 
me, to go so far alone, or with strangers," remarked 
the milder faced of the other two ; '' I should not 
like to have a grandchild of mine sent off so." 
" Nor I," briefly came from the thinner and closer 
lips of the severer-featured other. Not much more 
was said till we arrived at our first stopping place ; 
for the school-miss seemed rather sad, and no won- 
der, thought I. Here she ate her breakfast, as if 
her appetite had been left at the table of her home, 



A traveler's story. 183 

where the eater ought still to have continued, as I 
soon had reason to beHeve. 

After a few miles further, my elderly compan- 
ions left the stage to the sole occupancy of Miss 
and myself. We had scarcely got our first jolt in 
the roomy vehicle, before I perceived the child 
sobbing, and in tears. " What is the matter, my 

young friend ?" " O, I don't want to go to ; 

I hate that place. I wish mother would let me 
stay at home ; I want to be with her." And then 
she sobbed the louder, and the little blue fountains 
poured out on the bloom beneath, such waters of 
bitterness, as, long-continued, would have blighted 
that beauty of health and hue. 

But childhood's tear-springs are happily not deep, 
and are soon exhausted. My sympathies could not 
but be most keenly awakened. I was led at once 
to make inquiries about the school to which she 
w^s forced to return. In the first place, I learned 
that the little sufferer loved her mother exceeding- 
ly, and her highest happiness was to be in her so- 
ciety. Netxt, I was told that she was laughed at 
and treated unfeelingly, by her instructors, when 
she was homesick, and cried. I inquired minutely 
into the customs of the school, and I found that they 
were unfavorable to health. The time after rising, 
before breakfast, was occupied in their private 
rooms, — the bed-rooms ; and the breath of health 
abounds not, immediately, where the exhalations of 
sleep have been going on for seven or eight hours. 
Soon after the first meal, the pupils are imprisoned 



184 A traveler's story. 

in the school-room till mid-day, with the exception 
of a very brief recess. They must sit just so 
straight, and in that constrained position by 
which flexile-framed and many-jointed nature is 
so sorely pained. A number of the seats were 
without backs, so that the backbone was tlie only 
backing some of the poor creatures had for their 
aching bodies. Then the half hour before dining, 
in the summer's hot noon, was not very appropriate 
for bodily action, and at no season was particularly 
devoted to needed exercise. The afternoon was 
passed also in the same dull, uninteresting, and 
constrained routine. " Oh," exclaimed the little 
tender-hearted narrator, in describing her seat and 
posture ; "oh, 1 have such a feeling here," putting 
her hand to her bosom, " that I can hardly breathe, 
sometimes. Then I have no appetite to eat, and I 
am sick after my dinners. Oh, I don't want to go 
back. Do let me go on with you, sir. No, I beg 
you would hire a horse and chaise, and carry me 
back to my home. Or get me a buggy, and I will 
go alone, if I don't get home till midnight. I had 
rather do this, than go back to school. I shan't be 
an atom afraid." And then she cried again, and 
would not be comforted. My heart was moved. 
I then resolved that I would tell the story to the 
public, for the good of poor little suflferers like 
this. 

But why was this lovely child sent away, fifty 
miles, to a heartless boarding school ? Because it 
was the fashion ; and the schools near home, though 



A traveler's story. 185 

some of them were very good, as I had before learned, 
did not exactly suit the parents, who seemed to be 
entirely ignorant of the manner in which schools 
should be conducted. From the little girl's artless 
account, they had found fault with the very salu- 
tary methods of an excellent school. And what 
were the studies that were pursued at such a dis- 
tance, and at the cost of nearly two hundred dollars 
a year ? Nothing, I found, but the ordinary pur- 
suits of reading, writing, arithmetic, and grammar, 
with the exception of a book on commerce. From 
this she probably learned something about the va- 
rious productions of different countries. She learned 
about things appertaining in part at least to the 
other side of the globe, and which would be better 
understood at a maturer age ; while the phenomena 
of nature, and the common processes of art, close 
by, were a perfect mystery. I set to questioning 
the Httle student of commerce, and she knew noth- 
ing about the common grains, fields of which we 
were passing, and from which was her daily food. 
How they differed or grew, how they were sown or 
harvested, she knew not. Of the clouds over her 
head, the rains dropping at her feet, and the heat 
and the cold aflfecting her body continually, she 
could give no good reasons. She thought the 
clouds were great bags up in the sky, holding water 
which once in a while got loose, through some sort 
of holes, and tumbled down in the shape of rain. 
She knew not how butter, or cheese, or a thousand 
things, were formed, which were made at doors all 
16* 



186 A traveler's story. 

around. I asked if she had been in a gristmill. 
She had only seen the outside of one in the vicin- 
ity of her school. Her mind was sent across the 
ocean faintly to conceive of sugar-making, for in- 
stance, while she was not led to observe with her 
own bodily senses as interesting processes of manu- 
facture taking place within two minutes' walk. 
At the same time, she was suffering from the want 
of that exercise which excursions into fields, and 
shops, and mills, would have afforded, together with 
valuable and pleasant instruction. The only time 
at all appropriated to all-important exercise, was a 
brief period about sundown ; and this was occupied, 
at best, by a short and sauntering walk, and it 
might be whiled away within doors, if indolence 
so preferred. 

My story is done, excepting to add, that I saw 
my sweet little companion left at the door of the 
seminary where, for a moment at least, she forgot 
the hated school in the welcoming kiss of two or 
three fellow pupils, — perhaps I ought to say, fellow 
sufferers. Just at parting from me, she strikingly 
showed how easily her good affections might be 
drav^n out, instead of being repressed, and her nat- 
urally amiable temper kept sweet, instead of being 
soured. Among the last words of her truly musi- 
cal voice, were, " O, sir, I wish you would tell me 
your name, so that I may write to mother how very 
kind you have been to me." The name was given 
her, together with a most friendly and pitying 
good-by. I traveled on to my destination, lament- 



187 

ing that the subject of education should be so 
little understood by those who ought to know the 
most about it — parents. I was more convinced 
than ever that the most proper place for the first 
stages of education at least, is within and around 
an affectionate and a judiciously careful home. For 
the sake of mere fashion, or acquisitions which the 
head is not yet old enough to understand or yet to 
need, why should the tender heart of childhood be 
wrested out of its warm bosom and cast into the 
distant cold ? 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN 



MAGNANIMOUS BOY. 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN, &e 



The love of gain is well known to be a predomi- 
nant characteristic of the people of New England. 
It possesses the souls of many like as an indwelling 
spirit, impelling the will and giving direction to all 
the energies. It enters the man in his very child- 
hood, and oft-times puts down and keeps down that 
benevolence, which all, in a greater or less degree, 
are born with, and are intended to manifest in num- 
berless ways, blessing and being blessed. At least, 
if kindly and spontaneous sympathy is not hin- 
dered, how often is its purity corrupted, its beauty 
tarnished, by accompanying or after-coming thoughts 
of detestable selfishness. Mammon will stand close 
to the heart-fountain, to catch the impulsive, stain- 
less gush of charity, and make a bargain out of it. 
For instance, I have known the single occupant of 
a carriage invite the wearied or hurried traveler to 
take a seat by his side, and then at parting receive 
Avith chuckling satisfaction the bit of silver which 
the benefited felt prompted in gratitude to offer. 



192 THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 

I have known men leap with pure sympathy's un- 
calculating quickness to the aid of one caught in 
sudden trouble, and after carefully bestowing relief, 
go away seemingly more glad with a trifle of heart- 
cursing lucre than with the good they had done. 
How pitiable is this insensibility to the worth of 
that benevolence, which not only quickens sponta- 
neously into action, but abides without a single 
after-thought of selfishness. Its own consciousness 
is sufficient reward. But besides this, with what 
consequent and unalloyed gratitude from the recipi- 
ent of favor is it blessed. Still farther, the prompt- 
ing feeling, — the performed good, — the touched 
affections, the sweetened tones, the softened looks 
of a fellow-being are all laid up, rustless, uncanker- 
ing treasures, in the heaven of remembrance. What 
a damnation is worldliness to itself! There is not 
much hope of breaking this insensibility in gain- 
hardened men. Gain-hardened they will live and 
act, and thus they are likely to die. But oh ! that 
tender childhood and docile youth might be saved 
from this money-taint, this metal-crust of the heart. 
But alas, how numerous the instances of early 
hardening ! A boy but picks up and runs to you 
with your pocket-book, yea, nothing but your hand- 
kerchief, almost the instant it was dropped, and 
then trips away rejoicing in the curse of your cop- 
pers, and not in the sweet little blessing of the 
kindly deed. And parents — I have seen them man- 
ifest a foolish pleasure, indeed it should be called 
a vile, baneful sympathy, when their child has 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 193 

bounded into their presence joyfully exhibiting the 
lucky prize occasioned by another's misfortune. 
While he slips the douceur into his incipient purse, 
or drops it upon the little growing pile in his chest- 
till, he wishes perhaps that such chances might 
come often, and these guardians and guides of his 
immortal nature seemingly wish the same. 

No doubt there are many, many instances, 
wherein the young do not prove traitors to their 
pure, spontaneous sympathies, by taking pay for 
their exercise. One such instance I once expe- 
rienced myself, and for encouragement to the pure, 
and example to the perverted, I will relate it. 
Sometimes a good deed is so associated in our 
minds with peculiar circumstances, that we our- 
selves, if not others, deem it to have uncommon 
significance and value. It is so in my mind with 
the one in view. But first I would say something 
of the town wherein the scene to be described took 
place ; for that town is dear to my heart from the 
many delightful hours, yea, days, I have spent there 
with a clerical friend, whose good-doing and excel- 
lent example I shall directly have occasion to men- 
tion. He will forgive me, I trust, for pointing to 
his light, which, though shining clearly and very 
brightly before men, men may not see, although it 
is before them. 

The town of lies upon some of the bold- 

est, roughest hills of New England, surrounded by~ 
scenery of the most imposing character. A few 
miles to the eastward arise mountainous piles, arui' 
17 



194 THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 

ridges of picturesque grandeur. Southward, towers 
the solitary, dark, blue summit of one of our grand- 
est mountains. The steepled and cohimned church 
is loftily, and so peculiarly situated, that its roof 
sends the rain-drops on one side to the Merrimack, 
and on the other to the sea by the opposite channel 
of the Connecticut. From this airy elevation the 
eye, looking westward, first falls upon one of those 
numerous ponds which gem with crystal, and en- 
chantingly mirror, these wilder regions. On one 
side of this water ascends a woody steep, made 
bold by rocky cliffs. On another a hill rounds up, 
and softens beneath the touch of agriculture. On 
a third side, to the spectator in a particular position, 
the adjacent monarch of the hills seems to shoot his 
pinnacled supremacy into a skyey depth, which the 
watery reflection arches with the infinite magnifi- 
cence of reality. Far away on the western horizon 
is discerned the line of the Vermont mountains, ro- 
mantically diversified with extended ridge, rounded 
summit, and heaven-piercing peak. Such is the 
gloriouis scenery by which the Creator informs the 
minds of many, and inspires the hearts of some, in 
these retirements. One would think, that love and 
awe toward alluring and soul-commanding nature 
would here modify and hallow the alUpossessing 
spirit of gain. Whether it be so or not is doubtful, 
for the hardj stern soil begets a habit of industry 
and persevering acquisitiveness, which the beautiful 
and grand would hardly counteract in most minds. 
The narrowed soul will not look out of its insignifi- 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 195 

cancy and turn from its petty purposes, although God's 
mightiest messengers in creation present themselves 
majestic at its casements or thunder at its portals. 

But the particular town just described possesses 
other advantages of an intellectual and moral char- 
acter, which cannot but have some good effect, es- 
pecially on the young. The schools, I believe, are 
in an unusual state of forwardness, owing in some 
degree to a liberal fund left for their aid by a former 
wealthy clergyman of the place, now deceased. 
Libraries too were the subject of his benefaction, if 
recollection rightly serves. But the most distin- 
guishing means of improvement, are the efforts and 
personal character of one of the present clergymen. 
He has been settled somewhat over twenty years. 
Very early in his ministry he commenced a juvenile 
library, which has steadily increased, and is the 
largest collection of the sort that I have ever seen. 
Through this, a universal taste for reading has been 
generated in the young mind. All under the age 
of thirty, down to childhood, cannot but have re- 
ceived improvement from this, and manifest it in 
their conversation and daily walks. Libraries of a 
higher character have also been established under 
the direction of the same individual. One of these 
is worthy of particular mention, as it is uncommon, 
viz., a scientific library, including all the volumes of 
one of the great cyclopedias. The farmer at his 
fireside, perusing works like these, is surely in a fair 
way to get the better of that all-prevailing mam- 
mon-service, of which complaint has been made. 



196 THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 

Again, my clerical friend is a devotee to the natural 
sciences, and by example and precept has dissemi- 
nated some taste for these subjects among his peo- 
ple. With Botany, and particularly Entomology, 
he is minutely familiar. When his parishioners 
come to his study to exchange books, (he being gen- 
eral librarian,) they occasionally linger over the 
cabinet of insects, shelves of minerals, and collec- 
tion of plants and flowers, thereby themselves 
catching a taste for the charming studies of nature. 
It is particularly interesting, to observe the children 
hang with wondering delight over the glories of the 
floral kingdom and the insect tribes, before they 
trip away with their exchange from the book-shelf. 
The little folks are thus led not only to observe the 
flowers of the field more critically, and to chase the 
" blossom of the air," as Bryant calls the butterfly, 
but to look sharply after the comparatively despised 
bugs of the sod, and worms of the dust, — finding 
the Divine skill, beauty and perfection, where most 
never think to stoop for them. Now and then the 
little philosopher imagines he has found a specimen, 
which his Minister does not know of, as he has not 
seen it in his collection, and away he runs to sur- 
prise the good man with his discovery. 

I trust that I shall be pardoned for giving such 
publicity to the character and eftbrts of a man who, 
in his exceeding modesty, would shrink from noto- 
riety. 1 do it for the effect such an example may 
have on others similarly situated. See what good 
may be accomplished, what measures of enjoyment 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 



197 



be possessed, by a clergyman, though in the utmost 
seclusion from both the fashionable and the literary 
world, as it is called. Here, at the distance of 
seventy miles from the much desired advantages of 
the city, and forty miles from even a rail-road,* and 
on the rough steep hill-sides, is a living lesson 
which should not be lost on those clergymen who 
pine after the pulpit of the city, or the populous 
village. My clerical exemplar makes no pretension 
to graceful gesture, rhetorical flourish, or any thing 
like commanding eloquence. Neither do the hills 
perceptibly tremble beneath his pastoral tread. 
Yet, like the sunlight and the dews, what changes 
does he accomplish without making any noise, or 
startling the world to stop and gaze as he operates. 
•And like those agents of nature which are the still- 
est though the mightiest, such a man works without 
mention ; the lesson of his example is unheeded. 
It is lightning and torrent, in the spiritual as in the 
material world, which make men cry, lo ! here, and 
lo ! there. They are sudden, intense, and perhaps 
astonishing in their action, yet how brief and nar- 
row are they, comparatively, in beneficent effects. 
I would by no means however assert, or imply, 
that special, occasional and tempest-like exertion 
may not be useful. Let those who are capable of 
such art, according to their capabilities, do good in 
their own way. I wonld simply suggest, that those 
who cannot compel week-day business to stop and 

* Rail-roads have now been laid up to a point much nearer our friend's abode. 

17* 



198 THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 

enter into, and be affected by, their operations, 
should not be so lightly esteemed in comparison, as 
many seem to think. I would present to those 
who cannot astound with great things, an example 
of accomplishing great, yea, greatest things, with- 
out astounding. For is it not a great thing, yea, 
one of the greatest, to take the inhabitants of a re- 
mote and rude town, and not only lead them in the 
ordinary ways of religion, but guide them to the 
study of all the Divine works, from the minutest, 
creeping at the roots or unfolding at the tips of the 
herbage, to the mightiest, which circle and shine 
in the celestial immensity ? Is it not glorious, so 
to teach and exemplify, that out of nearly infant 
mouths, not only evangelically, but scientifically 
and philosophically, the praise of God is perfected? 
Let those who say, yea, go and do likewise, and 
great shall be their reward. 

When I began this article with an allusion to the 
gain-getting spirit, and with the fore-mention of an 
instructive incident, I did not anticipate that so 
wide a space would intervene before I should come 
to my story. But that scenery burst anew and so 
inspiringly on my conceptions, that I could not but 
describe it ; that friend came so dearly and instruc- 
tively into remembrance, that I did not like at once 
to dismiss him. And now, as an introduction to 
my incident, I would remark, that I am pleased to 
imagine that the part acted by the above-named 
individual, in the culture of the young, tended to 
paint the incident with its moral beauty and to point 
it with keen instruction. 



THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 199 

Early one summer morning, I was traveling in a 
chaise through this mountain town. I had arrived 
near the outskirts, when I fancied that I heard a 
singular noise, but did not then stop or look out to 
see what it might be, as I was in particular haste to 
my destination. I drove rapidly on. But soon 
the noise again startled my ear, and seemingly the 
shrill scream of a human being. Still driving on, 
I leaned out of the vehicle to learn whence came 
the piercing sound. I then discovered a boy pur- 
suing me at the top of his speed, and crying after 
me to stop, which I now did. He came up nearly 
exhausted by half a mile's run, with his bosom all 
open, and his face all reddened with the heat, and 
reeking with perspiration, and he pantingly exclaim- 
ed, "You are losing your trunk, Sir." At this in- 
formation I leaped out, and surely my trunk was 
in a deplorable condition. It had been fastened 
beneath the axle-tree. But one of the straps had 
got broken, and it was dangling by the other now 
almost wrested off, having been knocked against the 
stones and dragged through dust and mud till it was 
a sorry sight. I requested my benevolent informer 
to stand at the horse's head till I should put it into 
safety. Of course such a boy, or any boy, could 
not but do this under such circumstances. When 
ready to start again, in spontaneous gratitude I held 
out a piece of money, of more tempting value than 
our smallest silver coin ; and lo ! the little fellow 
drew back, and straightened up, and with a keener 
eye, and almost an offended tone, exclaimed — ^''Do 



200 THE MOUNTAIN TOWN. 

you think I would take pay for that 7^^ I could 
not prevail on him to receive the least compensa- 
tion. I went on my journey, rejoicing in the acci- 
dent, although it was to cost me the repairing of 
my torn and bruised trunk. It had made known 
to me one magnanimous boy. For, liow many 
much slighter favors had I received from the young, 
who capered away insensible to the pleasure of 
doing a kindness, in the satisfaction of " taking 
pay for that." Ay, thought T, this boy is an honor 
to the common school ; he is a Christian learner 
in my friend's Sunday School ; he is a diligent 
reader of the juvenile library. Blessed pupil of a 
blessed pastor ! thy getting is the true and the best 
one, that of understanding ; to thee, '' wisdom is 
the principal thing." How many, many times 
since, have I thought of that boy, and wished that 
I knew his name, and could trace his onward 
course. How many times, in my wanderings and 
stoppings within sight, even within the most distant 
glimpses of the peaked crown of that proud old 
hill-king, have I thought of that grand, that royal- 
spirited boy. That mountain, by natural associa- 
tion, is to me a most fit monument to one magna- 
nimity towering above many meannesses. 

Ye boys, and indeed ye men, of our country, to 
whom the moral of my story may apply, I pray you, 
when you shall perform a little favor spontaneously, 
or even by request, let your souls stand up in true 
nobility — in the heavenward grandeur of disinter- 
estedness, and say in the spirit, " Do you think I 
would take pay for that 1 " 



<; 



THE 



LIGHTHOUSE OF LIGHTHOUSES. 



I 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



It was a bright, glad, summer afternoon, on 
which, by invitation, we were seated in a carriage 
with a party of young friends, all of them as bright 
and glad as the day. Our aim was a magnificent 
sea-view at Marblehead Neck. We love scenery, 
as did also our company, and we should like much 
to describe the delightful pictures of land and 
water on the way, and the ocean grandeur at the 
termination of our ride. But we have in our 
present writing a particular and rather uncommon 
theme for public attention ; so to this we will con- 
fine our pen. We came to gaze on the dark, blue 
spaciousness of the waters, but we found that 
which sunk deeper into our memories and hearts 
than this, inasmuch as it was a sort of unexpected 
discovery, fraught with instruction profitable to go 
with us through life. 

There was the Lighthouse — our fair companions 
must look at a novelty like this. As the lofty sea- 
beacon could not come up to the city, it was not 



204 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

well to lose the opportunity of visiting it on its 
rocky stand. So thither we turned our steps, just 
to take a glance, as we supposed, and then away. 
As we gazed towards the little chister of buildings 
occupied by the keeper, we could not but observe 
the air of convenience and neatness of every thing 
around. The first object of a domestic nature we 
arrived at was a little yard, the home and bed of 
the family cow of a summer night. Every thing 
about it, down to the stool of the milker and the 
fastening of the gate, arrested our attention on 
account of the ingenuity of contrivance and clean- 
liness of condition. We passed through an enclos- 
ure, and over what would be called a lawn, if 
fashion dwelt there, and came to an outhouse, 
where the keeper was industriously mending a sail. 
He seemed about sixty years of age, with a sky- 
blue eye, and an expression beaming therefrom as 
bright and kindly as a star. A plump chest, and a 
full, ruddy cheek indicated that threescore years 
seldom rejoiced in happier health than in him who 
now welcomed us to his premises. We found him 
most agreeably communicative concerning matters 
around, of which we wished to know. Some of 
his intelligence we should like here to put down, 
would our principal aim allow us time and space. 
At the slightest expression of our desire to see the 
lighthouse, our entertainer conducted us to the edi- 
fice. But before we describe the spectacle at its 
top, let us first touch on things below. The old 
shop where our friend labored was a pattern of neat- 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 205 

ness. The various implements there sheltered, 
were arranged in the utmost order, and there was 
so little dust that our ladies could sit on bench, 
block or old timber, without the slightest soiling of 
garments. We could not but observe, as we passed, 
the exceeding tidiness of the dwelling-house, not 
only ill front, but on the back side where less ex- 
posed, and so also of all the appurtenances around. 
Had it been the summer retreat of city opulence, 
whatever else might have been, there could not 
have existed an order and cleanliness superior to the 
present. The fences of rude stones from the pas- 
tures and shores were not disfigured by unsightly 
gaps at the top, or rubbish along the base. The 
little patches of cultivation showed not a weed, to 
steal from the useful vegetables the* nutriment of 
the soil, or the now needed dews from the air. 
These little spots, won and softened from sterile 
nature, forcibly reminded us of what we had read 
about Swiss industry and thrift. 

Now to the tower. The keeper leads us up the 
stairway, which is as clean as if all the maids in 
Marblehead had watched over its scrubbing, or the 
notable witches of Salem had nightly trooped over 
it with their brooms. We reach the lantern, and 
find ourselves encompassed by glass, with a July 
sun blazing in with melting potency. But we 
scarcely heed our bodily discomfort, so interested 
are we in the objects before the eye, and the ex- 
planations kindly proffered to the ear. The floor 
is of stone, and as unsoiled and polished as the 
18 



206 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

hearth of a drawing-room. There are ten lamps, if 
we rightly remember, to be kept burning from twi- 
light to twilight. Of course, there is the daily 
business of filhng with oil, and the nightly care of 
snuffing the wicks and keejiing them at their best 
flame. In these operations all know the liabilities 
of spilling oil aiid of dropping the black, filthy 
snuffings around. Yet there was not the slightest 
appearance of any such mishap or carelessness here. 
The stand of an astral in the most tasteful home could 
not less have betokened the above-uientioned pro- 
cesses, than did this dome and every thing therein, 
— although so secluded and unexposed to visitation. 
The metal and glasses of the lamps, and all the 
complicated riiachinery, were as free from all soil 
as the genteelest housewifery could desire in the 
domestic domain. The reflectors corresponding 
with the ten lamps were of the highest polish, and 
reflecting, as some of them now did, the direct rays 
of an intense sun, our eyes could hardly bear their 
dazzling brilliancy. 

So much for appearances. Now how came they 
so perfect, so unequalled by any similar establish- 
ment that we had ever seen ? In the first place, the 
keeper had an innate love of order and neatness, or 
he had trained himself thereto. Besides this, he 
exercised an inventive talent and constructive tact, 
by which he produced numerous little contrivances 
for abbreviating labor, and by which he avoided 
those uncleanly nuisances which otherwise might 
have accumulated. But chiefly, he was moved by 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 207 

a determination to do his duty to the utmost, and 
more even than his employer, the Government, 
would orJinarily consider his duty. He would 
conform not me.ely to the common custom and 
expectations appertaining to his post, but he would 
ascend to the mark prescribed by his own lofty 
conscience. He would gratify, moreover, those 
delicate tastes, whether inborn or acquired, which 
in another situation, and with wealth, might 
have sj read beauty around, and collected elegancies 
within the costly mansion for the entertainment of 
refined acquaintance. As it was, he made the most 
of his position. He might say with Paul, "I mag- 
nify mine office." 

And now, a word as to the compensation of such 
faithfid care, and gratuitous, unnoticed, unpraised 
propriety. This man had once held with honor 
the responsible station of Gunner on board of one 
of the distinguished and victorious vessels of the 
last war. He had been for years in the perilous 
service of his country. He still serves the public 
in this seclusion for the stipend of four hundred 
dollars, together with the use of the little plot of 
land and buildings appertaining to his charge. A 
miserable reward for such industry by day, and 
watchings by night, and solitude at all times ! 
Here he must abide, not only through the more 
bland and agreeable seasons, but through the long, 
long, dreary winter, cut off from church and school in 
the town by an arm of the sea. He must not only 
be at the expense of boarding his children out for 



208 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

their education, but be deprived of their dear society, 
so cheering to the loneliness of father and mother. 
If sickness suddenly invade his dwelling amid the 
wintry tempests, the pitiless elements are almost the 
only comforters that can well approach from with- 
out. Four hundred dollars ! Any lighthouse-tender 
should receive more than this to compensate him 
for his privations. But this noble old patriot is 
deserving of a thousand dollars, as much as hun- 
dreds of other public servants who do nothing but 
easily tend upon goose-quill and fool's-cap in car- 
peted offices, surrounded by all that makes life 
pleasurable. The Government should grant him 
at least a premium for his example. His lighthouse 
not only directs the seaman on his dangerous 
course, but were its superior keeping known and 
commended, it might be a lighthouse to the light- 
houses on all the coasts and isles of the seas, shining 
conspicuous above them, and illuminating the way 
to perfect management. 

But still farther, our hitherto obscure friend 
should be known and honored, if not more substan- 
tially rewarded, for his fine moral qualities, and 
their exemplary influence. Where such rare order 
and purity prevail in an establishment like this, so 
unexposed to human observation, we may be quite 
sure that more than common propriety reigns in the 
mind that here presides. He who thus magnifies 
his office cannot but be of magnified soul. We' 
ourselves deeply felt the teaching of his example. 
We seemed to be girded by a new energy to return 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 209 

to the duties of our own sphere, and strive to the 
utmost for perfection. We resolved to contrive a 
remedy for inconveniences, instead of complaining 
of them ; to seize on all profitable opportunities, 
instead of indolently letting them pass by our 
folded hands. Now let our office be magnified. 
Let our lamp be polished and ever trimmed and 
burning to the brightest, whether the world witness 
or not. So help us, Infinite Father of lights ! 

We cannot but remark before closing, for the 
sake of an interesting association of ideas, that we 
learned the name of this pattern beacon-keeper to 
be Darling. On the announcement, our minds at 
once recurred to the heroic Grace, and her father, 
whom we had lately admired for their adventurous 
feats of mercy on the British coast. This man, we 
will hazard to say, would exhibit a kindred spirit in 
behalf of suffering. Here is a magnanimous na- 
ture crowned with an honored name. We now 
commend Captain Darling to ''the powers that be." 
Let them at least cause his example to shine close 
before all of similar vocation, from Eastport to the 
country's last Southwest. 

But, good old friend, noble patriot, as faithful in 
the deepest seclusion of peace as in the glare and 
plaudits of war ! it matters not to thine own soul, 
except in the desire to extend improvement, 
whether thou shalt remain unnoticed or not. Let 
a Government inspector visit thee but once a year, 
and praise, and straightway forget thy merits ; let 
President and Secretaries never hear of thee ; yet 
18* 



210 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

this cannot prevent the lofty stand of thine own 
consciousness. Thou wilt still do thine utmost 
duty in thy rocky solitude. Thine own several 
virtues shall commune together rejoicing, and speak 
thee peace. And to our fancy, if not to thine, the 
seas shall send up their white-plumed surges with 
tones of approval. The sunlight and the showers 
shall aid thy neat husbandry with almost a con- 
scious gladness that they are blessing the merito- 
rious. The clouds shall not over-shadow thy spirit 
with darkness, and the clear heavens shall look 
down with starry eyes of kindness as thou punc- 
tually arisest to trim thy beacon-flame, whilst the 
commerce-blessed nation whom thou servest takes 
unbroken sleep. But a purer era is coming. Then 
shall true worth be better known. Secret things 
shall be proclaimed from the house-tops. "The 
first shall be last, and the last first." The great 
moral world shall wake up in its undying spirit and 
anxiously ask of such, " Watchman, what of the 
night ? " 

Note. — In the republication of the foregoing article, the writer 
would take the opportunity to remark, that a wider observation 
might have found upon our coast other lighthouses and other 
keepers that would have excited perhaps equal admiration. 



THE DARK OF AUTUMN 



BRIGHT OF WINTER IN NEW ENGLAND. 



At tlie request of Miss Leslie, for an article from the present 
writer, tlie following was contributed to her " Gift," of 1836 ; but 
the name of the author, usually attached in such cases, was acci- 
dentally omitted. It seemed proper to make this statement, that 
the authorship of an anonymous piece taken from the Annual, 
might not be supposed to be claimed without right. 



THE DARK OF AUTUMN AND THE BRIGHT OF WINTER 
IN NEW ENGLAND. 



I HAVE a cousin born and bred in one of the 
West India Islands. How I, a New Englander, 
happened to have such a relative there, matters not 
to my story. Of course, I had an uncle ; and if 
you only think of the sheen of a Spanish dollar 
glittering upon the eye of acquisitiveness, you will 
not wonder that my uncle married and settled in a 
climate so different from that of his nativity. Well, 
this cousin visited his father's relatives in New 
England, for the first time, in the summer of the 
year 18 — . He spent some months with us, for 
the purpose of crowning his mercantile education 
with some branches not so well acquired in his na- 
tive island. The early part of December was the 
time set for his return. He shuddered at the very 
thought of exposing his tropical organization to the 
severities of our winter. He began to shiver with 
cold, and to curl over a fire in serene September. 
The calmness and southwestern softness of our In- 
dian summer, with all its '' pomp of hues," could 
hardly reconcile him to our frosty nights. As the 



214 



THE DARK OF AUTUMN 



cold season advanced, he began to grow desperate. 
He rolled in his extremities, as the leaves do, by 
the potency of frost. Finally, he betook himself 
to some friends in the city, for he snpposed it might 
be rather more comfortable amid brick walls and a 
sea-softened atmosphere, than it was so far to the 
north, and so high in the sky, as was onr hilly 
town. Yet he made ns one more visit, previous to 
sailing for his own dear clime of the sun. He 
would not have dared a chilly journey of more than 
fifty miles into the country, but here was his father's 
birth-place, and the home of his ancestors ; and, 
more than all, he really loved us, as he found that 
the Granite State, where we lived, had imparted 
nothing of its stone to our hearts. 

The day our tender-bodied friend arrived, was 
the very last and the very gloomiest of November. 
The aspects of earth and sky were to most natives, 
as well as to the tropic-bred, about the same for 
cheerfulness as the circumstances of a funeral. 
Indeed, death in unburied deformity was every- 
where around, in respect to the vegetable tribes. 
Field, pasture, and woodland, in summer so vari- 
ously beautiful, were now all dark and desolate, in 
the last stages of autumnal decay. And, to multi- 
ply the images of mortality, our West Indian, in 
jocular spleen, said, that the trees were like lifeless 
skeletons, with their bare and cold bony limbs rat- 
tling against each other in the wind. No wonder 
that even these long-living giants of vegetation 
looked, also, like the dead, to an eye accustomed to 
perennial verdure. 



AND THE BRIGHT OF WINTER. 215 

The visible heavens, moreover, shed down no 
consolation for the departed hfe and comeliness of 
earth. The sky was ceiled aronnd with leaden, and 
still more darkly bine cloads ; forming, as it were, 
fit dome for those malignant powers of the air that 
dee[)en pensiveness into melancholy, and force de- 
spair into snicide, in some unfortunate tempera- 
ments. The waters, too, which will sparkle in the 
clear smi as cheerfully as when the vernal leaves 
put out over them, or the sunimer flowers grace their 
borders ; — they had caught the sadness of the sea- 
son, and seemed to reflect from their bosom the 
chill of the clouds, as well as their hue. There 
was wanting only one circumstance more to give to 
the day the last and superlative degree of cheerless- 
ness, and this was that blue breath of the sea- 
demons, the northeast wind. 

Such was the day on which our visitor from the 
torrid zone arrived at our door, with his face, hands, 
and heart, all im-blued with its influences. After 
our cordial salutations and genial fireside had re- 
possessed him with comfort, we spent a right merry 
evening, making him feel that ours was no unfa- 
vorable climate for hearts. 

Just before retiring for the night, it was observed 
that the clouds had closed mistily together, and 
were drooping lower, betokening some kind of visi- 
tation from them before morning. But the tem- 
perature was just at that point at which the most 
infallible almanac-maker dare not be more positive 
than to say, " Rain, hail, or snow, or some sort of 



216 THE DARK OF AUTUMN 

weather before long." Next morning we were 
surprised to find that about four inches of snow had 
fallen during the night. It was quite remarkable 
that the first snow should come exactly with the 
first day of winter. The sky was now as clear as 
on the first morning of light, before a cloud had 
been made, or a mist had gone up. It was truly 
one of the most beautiful days that ever dropped 
from the sun. Now, thought I, cousin Ferdinand 
will behold a sight such as he never saw before, 
and one worth traveling for far, and tarrying for 
long. I roused him from his slumbers, that I 
might be sure to witness his surprise. As the 
white curtains were let down so as completely to 
cover the windows, he did not perceive the change 
that had taken place, before he left his chamber. I 
contrived to get his half-opened eyes to the door 
before he discovered it. I suddenly flung the door 
wide open, and let the unexpected scene upon his 
startled sight — a landscape of spreading plains, oval 
hills, and peaked mountains ; yesterday so drearily 
dark, but now all arrayed in the purest white, and 
bounded by tlie soft contrast of the azure heaven. 
As there had been but lit-tle or no wind, the snow 
had fallen as even as ever the hand of art had laid 
the carpets of a palace. And it had descended so 
gently and moist, that it lodged wherever it touched. 
All the fences were edged, and the posts were 
capped with white. But the trees were the most 
curious spectacle. Every branch and twig, before 
so naked and black, was now clothed and bright 



AND THE BRIGHT OP WINTER. 217 

with this bloom from the skies. Here and there 
curling tendrils, and more pendent boughs, making 
one think of flowery wreaths and festoons. At the 
moment, moreover, the rising sun was just gazing 
from the horizon on the white expanse, which gave 
back into his own rejoicing face the perfect reflec- 
tion of all his harmoniously mingled hues. Such 
was the scene which broke with the suddenness of 
enchantment on the young man's vision. He would 
scarcely have been more astonished and enraptured 
had he fallen asleep in our dismal north, and awaked 
to gaze on the flowery paradise of his own native 
isle. Indeed, had equatorial Flora herself been 
here, she might have been consumed with envy, as 
well as been congealed by cold. For there were 
forms and colors which she could not equal, with 
all her skill. The surface of the frost-work was 
one boundless continuity of the minutest prisms, 
all radiant with the seven-hued light, as if powdered 
with particles of rainbow. Certain I am, that in 
all nature there is not a texture or a tinting more 
exquisitely delicate than this ; it is the nearest ap- 
proach to the spiritual that the human eye beholds 
in things material. 

I need not record the ohs and ahs, and all the 
extravagant superlatives, now uttered by my be- 
wildered and transported cousin. He found no 
more fault with the manifold and uncomfortable 
changes of our capricious climate. He felt that 
autumn's darkest, might well be endured for the 
sake of beholding winter's brightest, enhanced by 
such a contrast. 
19 



218 AUTUMN AND WINTER IN NEW ENGLAND. 

I might now describe the pleasures of the sleigh- 
ride we gave our novelty-struck tropic man. I 
might speak also of the new life and gladness in- 
fused by this snow-fall into our rural population, 
making the feet of business dance to the jingling 
melodies of the merry bells. But I can now sketch 
but a single scene from the snow-bright season. 
However, I assure all dwellers in the sunny south, 
that one might fill a volume, describing the beauties 
and sublimities, the sports, comforts and delights 
of winter in New England. 



SCENERY-SHOWING, 



WORD-PAINTINGS OF THE BEAUTIFUL, THE PIC- 
TURESQUE, AND THE GRAND IN NATURE. 



" So my friend, 
Struck with deep joy may stand, as 1 have Etood, 
Silent with swimminj sense ; yea, 
• * * gaze till all dotii seem 
Less gross than bmlily ; a living thing 
Which acts upon the mind, and with such hues 
As clothe the All-mighty Spirit when he makes 
Spirits perceive his presence ! "—Coleridge. 



TO 

GEORGE B. EMERSON, ESQ., 

president of the american institute of instruction. 

Dear Sir, 

The germ of the present little work was a Lecture delivered 
before the body over which you preside, in the summer of 
1841. The favor with which it was generally received, and 
especially your own warm commendation, in respect to its 
useful tendency toward the end in view, have encouraged me 
to this enlargement and greater finish. I now beg the honor 
of dedicating the humble volume, through your name, to self- 

CULTURISTS, to PARENTS, tO SCHOOL-TEACHERS, and tO thoSC 

SCENERY-SEERS who Can already say, 

" With a pervading vision — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world !" 

With the highest respect, 

Your obedient servant, 

WARREN BURTON. 
May, 1844. 



SCENERY-SHOWING. 



CHAPTER I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



" Ho-w lovely, how commanding ! but though. Heaven 
In every heart hath sowti these early seeds 
Of love and admiration, yet in vain 
Without fair culture's kind parental aid." 

AiENSrOE. 

Scenery is the appearance of things to the eye. 
The term is here applied to objects on the face of 
creation, so disposed by form, color, dimension, or 
arrangement, or by several of these circumstances 
together, as to afford peculiar enjoyment to the 
beholder. 

There are some, predisposed by constitution, or 
of fortunate early education, who scarcely remem- 
ber the time when their souls were not pleasurably 
alive to the beauty, picturesqueness, and grandeur 
of nature. The perceptions of others are awak- 
ened at a later period, and then they never cease 
to rejoice, as at the opening of a new sense, to a 
divinely adapted, unalloyed, and sinless gratifica- 



224 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

tion. But the majority of people spend life in the 
midst of a thousand things thus interesting, and 
seem entirely unconscious of the charm awaiting 
their reception. An awful thunder cloud, a glorious 
rainbow, or a magnificent sunset, might be noticed 
^because it is occasional ; but many less striking 
phenomena, and nearly all the permanent aspects of 
nature, might as well not have been, as regards fit- 
ness to please by their scenic appearance. This 
inadvertency is not from lack of faculty to admire, 
or of time to observe, but because attention has 
never been specifically directed. 

Now, notwithstanding the dormancy of the taste 
in view, we believe it may be aroused in most, to 
receive at least satisfactions happening in the way, 
if not to go with amateur zeal in search of the 
distant. 

The aim of our humble work is to awaken per- 
ception and relish by presenting appropriate objects. 
It is a Scenery-showing to those who have not 
much contemplated this boundless field of happiness 
out-spread by skill and beneficence Divine. We 
would supply a place in reading which has hitherto 
been nearly or quite vacant. We hope, however, 
not to be altogether unacceptable to those whose 
taste has been already developed, and even to a 
degree far higher than our own. The faint word- 
paintings on our page may serve at least to recall to 
conception scenery at the time beyond convenient 
reach ; to aid them to live over again, in mind, 
unsinning, heaven-like moments, when they stood 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 225 

in admiration, love and joy, to receive into vision 
its choicest riches. We trust, moreover, that our 
endeavor may stimulate such readers to benevolent 
activity in a similar direction. We now respect- 
fully but earnestly enjoin on them to embrace every 
opportunity to lead others to a good which Provi- 
dence has before vouchsafed to them, as by especial 
favor. 

To the less initiated and the entirely unapprecia- 
ting, we now turn address. With a directness of 
speech, pardonable from sincerity of motive, we 
entreat them to a diligent self-culture in the respect 
now presented. It is remarkable how a taste for 
scenery will grow, with pleasure deepening upon 
pleasure, if it is only steadily and repeatedly 
directed. It is with the mouldings and tintings of 
nature, as with the pencilings of art, the more they 
are studied the more they win and fasten the atten- 
tion. The several points of interest — figures, hues, 
lights, shades, proportions — come into clearer and 
clearer distinctness ; indeed they seem to move vis- 
ibly out, as it were, into the nearer presence of the 
sight, as coveting to be observed and to confer en- 
joyment. With the ordinary mental endowment, any 
one will find valuable reward for such employment 
of leisure. Those of an organization more partic- 
ularly predisposing, have only to look, to love to 
look, till their taste shall grow into a very passion. 
We beg leave to illustrate by a passage of experi- 
ence. But first, we would take occasion to entreat 
the candor and kind regard of readers, so far as not 



226 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

to impute an egotistical obtriisiveiiess, if they shall 
find other personal references by way of illustration, 
or increase of interest. We know that incident in- 
fuses life and entertainment into description, which 
otherwise might be too quiet and less readable to 
some ; and if the incident is personal to the narrator, 
and modestly presented, it has an air of fresh truth- 
fulness far more absorbing. Then the spirit of 
the writer, thereby, is more present and real to the 
spirit of the peruser, and they go along together in 
more sympathetic companionship. Having thus 
humbly deprecated criticism on our self- personalities, 
we introduce our first instance of the kind. 

Not long ago, after a month's travel in a portion 
of country new to us, and therefore keeping our 
perceptions in constant exercise by change of 
objects, we returned to Boston, and to lodgings in 
a tame, unsightly street. But the prevention of our 
customary pleasure was quite a discomfort. The 
city seemed like a very prison. As the nearest 
remedy, we took to the Common. It never before 
seemed so charming, although we had sauntered 
there a thousand times, rapt with its surpassing 
loveliness. It was now a perfect paradise, in con- 
trast with the stiff, dead wood and brick, from 
which we had escaped. We were surprised, more- 
over, to find that our perceptive faculties had re- 
markably gained in concentration and particularity 
of attention. We observed the individual form 
and altitude of tree, the bend of bough, the circu- 
larity or the angular juxtaposition of branches, the 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 227 

fleeces of foliage, the hue and shape of skyey inter- 
spaces, with a distinctness that was a marvel. 
There we stood under the great dome of elm at the 
centre, and gazed up into its leaf-walled labyrinth 
of crookednesses, and conned them this way and 
that way, all round and all through, as we would 
the lesson of a book. The very pathways, before 
rather tiresomely straight, now pleasantly invited 
the eye by their slight but clearly defined turnings 
to and fro, and undulations up and down, as if in 
gentle sportiveness along the verdure. But, O, this 
verdure, soft as velvet, rich as emerald, spreading 
between the brown foot-courses, and lying up along 
the terraces, how it caught the eye into its lovely 
embrace and held it. 

Our faculties for the picturesque and beautiful 
had been at school with nature for weeks, and they 
had not only grown in affection for their mistress, 
but had been measurably developed, just as the 
organ of number or tune may be, by practice and 
reiteration. Indeed, we believe that one might 
learn to live in and be lost in the enchantments of 
scenery ; the sense swimming as it were in its own 
boundless element, drinking in therefrom, unsated, 
ever growing in strength, widening in capacity, and 
perpetually coveting for more. 

To parents and teachers we now turn in particu- 
lar address. We would allure their eyes to seek 
and fasten delighted on those scenes in nature now 
about to be presented through the dim medium of 
language. Let them be sure to lead to the same 



228 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

contemplation the tender ones under their respon- 
sible charge. We beseech them to reflect, what 
pure, blissful tastes they may call forth from their 
ready and waiting minds ; to consider with solemn 
conscientiousness, what foul desires, low vanities, 
and unworthy images, they can exclude from the 
immortal capacity, by opening it wide to receive 
the radiant benefactions of the Father of lights. 

We have also a word of injunction for those of 
mature age, who have only themselves particularly 
to care for. We would ask. Ought the training of 
the young to be a matter separate from even their 
attention and sympathy ? Every child belongs in 
some sort to every other individual near, inasmuch 
as he may make or mar the happiness of every 
other by his character and conduct. Is not moral 
darkness a lack and discomfort to all beholders ? 
And does not moral brightness shine out pleasingly 
to all eyes ? Yes, all have a direct interest in the 
education of the young, not only for their own 
sakes, but for the special good they may confer. 
Line upon line, precept upon precept, may be given 
in instructive conversation. A lecture, from those 
now addressed, on any useful subject, will be as 
valuable to a juvenile group, or to a single individ- 
ual, as it would be from parent or school-teacher. 
It might be even of more worth, inasmuch as the 
unexpectedness of the instruction will make it more 
impressive and rememberable. We make applica- 
tion of our hints to the topic of our volume. How 
might they excite observation, and develop a taste 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 229 

for scenery, in almost any youth present to such 
attraction. How he would ever afterward, delight- 
fully remember them as the first perhaps to make 
him aware of such pure enjoyment. We know 
that they can do this, and that children w^ill not be 
dull or ungrateful listeners. A portion of our own 
experience shall illustrate. 

In the summer of 1842, on a pleasant afternoon, 
we had occasion to visit a house situated on what 
are called Roxbury Highlands. The friend we 
sought being at the time absent, we wandered out 
into the neighboring grounds, well known to be 
charmingly picturesque, from their alternate culture 
and wildness. Our ramble brought us to a clump 
of trees shooting up from a soil-covered cliff. Be- 
neath the leafy covert was a rustic seat, convenient 
to the lounging body and the looking eye. And' 
there commenced an adventure, which we now 
turn to account. Here were two boys, of ten or a 
dozen years old, one of them the son of our friend. 
They seemed to have provided for a long afternoon 
in their shady perch, by a store of bread for lun- 
cheon and a book or two for amusement. The 
sight was gladdening. The future literati of our 
land they might be, wise enough already to know 
that fragrant earth and fanning breezes were ele- 
ments of healthy growth both to body and spirit. 
They might be two embryo Howitts, who would 
some time write "Rural Life" in America. At 
first our new acquaintances were rather shy, seem- 
ing to prefer alternate snatches at their bread-feed 
20 



230 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

and book-feed to our conversation. But we knew 
how to take boyhood, and we quite soon dropped 
into their companionship, as easily as we might 
have dropped with them on the greensward. We 
contrived to get them into our own current of 
entertainment, which was scenery-seeing, and they 
took to it marvelously, entirely forgetting their loaf 
and literature. If we recollect right at this distance 
of time, there was near by, a tree of singular appear- 
ance. They had before observed it as curious; 
and now,exciteiJ by our own interest in the object, 
they descanted on it with surprising volubility. 
They were now ready to follow the pointing of 
our finger or the guidance of our footsteps any- 
where. We showed them a narrow field, with a 
grey fence at one end and a cliff at the other, if we 
remember, and on each side a grove, walling it up 
with thick-set trunks all regularly round, and over- 
towered by interlappiiig foliage. We made them 
gaze at the spectacle till they thought it beautiful, 
and seeming almost like a very picture in a book. 
We then went down to a brook that stole out into 
view from a bridge-shadow and flowed beside a 
dusty road, and we gazed down upon its ripples 
and the stones and pebbles that spotted and specked 
and roughened the bed beneath. They seemed 
interested in the sight. At any rate they looked, 
and looking was a discipline that would lead into 
pleasure. We came back and ranged below a long 
higli cliff overtopped by trees. We tried to make 
them feel the picturesqueness, although they might 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 231 

not have understood the word by which we now 
express the idea. We are certain that they caught 
the desirable emotions. Indeed the boys grew 
lively and emphatic in their admiration of the 
various features of the landscape. We were soon 
joined in our rambles by a little girl, the sister of 
one of our companions, and she too caught the 
spirit of our pastime. They all, with glowing faces 
and beaming eyes, ran through the groves, scram- 
bled up rocks, getting a peep here and a peep there; 
then they mounted up a wooden prospect-tower in 
one of the grounds for a wider view and still new ob- 
jects, exclaiming at the different points, see here, or 
see there, and isn't this, that, or the other, beautiful, 
or grand? Thus we were held till it grew quite 
toward evening, and we were obliged to leave the 
most elating companionship we had known for 
many a day. A large portion of the zest might 
have been the result of mere animal spirits, yet 
there was withal a kindled and still kindling love 
for scenery ; we know it was so, and in consequence 
of our success we truly wished that there might 
be such an establishment as a Scenery School, and 
that we could be appointed Professor of the charm- 
ing science of the Picturesque. A few days after 
our adventure, we met our friend in the city, and 
he gave us one of the most cordial looks and greet- 
ings that ever gushed from his benevolent aspect. 
"Come," said he, "and spend a week with us at 
Roxbury ; the children want to see you." The 
egotism of recording this commendation is pardona- 



232 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

ble, we trust, as it is necessary to the completion 
of our narrative, and to point an illustration with 
the most convincing evidence, — the desire to see 
us again and for days together. 

In closing our preface we will just add, that we 
long to have children led to gaze on, and study, and 
intensely enjoy, pure, sinless nature, as we did 
when a boy, without a guide, yea, all alone, amid 
the scattered farm-spots and rocky and foliaged 
solitudes of romantic New England. O, that we 
could ourselves be bodily present to them all, and 
with finger, and eye, and tongue, direcX them to 
whatever is lovely in the less, magnificent in the 
larger, and grand in the mightier scenes of our 
multiform land. Would that we could inspire their 
souls with an enthusiasm like that which gives 
something like a portion of paradise to our own. 
We trust, however, that soon there will not be 
wanting to most, alert scenery-show-ers, who, by 
glowing words, in tones of love-melody, and by 
sweetly eloquent looks, shall convey to their souls 
these purest of visible gifts from the Invisible 
Giver. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 233 



CHAPTER II. 

MORNING. 

*'Hail holy Light, offspring of Heaven first born i" 

Milton, 
** The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 

With breath all iacense and with cheek all bloom, 

Laughing the clouds away." 

** Most glorious orb that wert a worship, ere' 
The mystery of thy making was revealed ! 
Thou earliest minister of the All-mighty, 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for His shadow !" 

Byron. 

Firstborn of the lovely in nature is the light. 
The most sweetly, winningly fair of the day, is the 
dawn. The most purely glorious of effulgent ex- 
hibitions, is the full-kindled morning. We place 
their pictures, therefore, near the entrance of our 
gallery, as fittest to greet the visitor to its series of 
shows. At first, there is but a peep of light, like 
the gleam of an eye, answering to your own with 
tender, cheerful welcouie. Now a wider flush. 
Anon the beaming spectacle runs into streaky 
length, like a changeable ribbon, hemming the 
horizon. It brightens up more broadly, and glows 
and glows, varying its hues almost while you wink. 
Perhaps tufts and bars, or fleecy curtains of cloud, 
20* 



234 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

add a garniture of bewitching tinges. At length 
the spacious East is one vast court of magnificence. 
Central amid the pomp, the solar monarch rolls roy- 
ally up with his chariot of changeful flame. The 
auroral heralds and all the rainbow retinue gradu- 
ally retire from ministration at the presence, and the 
Day-King in solitary potency possesses his realm. 
Human eyes, dazzled to blindness, must now turn 
away to pursue their duty by his reflected and 
softer light. 

In the summer, simultaneous with this spectacle 
of the sky, is another, which sceptres with all their 
power could not command, or wealth with all its 
moneys provide or equal ; yet, outspread for mil- 
lions to enjoy, the poorest as well as richest, will 
they but look. It is the all-bespangling and spark- 
ling dews. They begin to glitter with the first 
glimpses from the orient. They awaken even with 
the day-star, and gently acknowledge its tender 
beams. But as the dawn advances, how the beaded 
prisms glorify the herbage. Had we microscopic 
eyes, every drop would appear to reflect the exact 
morning, with all its changes on atmosphere and 
cloud : aurora beholding herself multiplied to mil- 
lions, by millions of dewy mirrors. 

Our sketches are dedicated to the soul through 
the eye. But accompanying this freshest blazon of 
lights, there is a luxury for the ear with which we 
would enhance the allurements of the scene. It is 
music ; music such as first from living breath greet- 
ed and satisfied man in sinless Eden ; the '' charm 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 235 

of earliest bird." At the faintest appearance of 
day, a few of the heaven-taught melodists have 
caught it in their peering sight and are stirring 
among the branches. Hark ! like prompt choris- 
ters, here and there in their leafy coverts, they are 
setting the tune for the general orchestra of the 
morning. A brief pause ; then a great orison goes 
up from amid the yet twilight-dim trees, seemingly 
in 

" His praise who out of darkness called up light." 

Come out, then, thou into whose eyes not only, 
but into whose immortal soul-depths the shining 
may be ! Come out, not only to gaze but to listen. 
The most ancient and the holiest visible tem[)le is 
re-illumined and specially adorned for this sacrifice. 
Freshness and fragrance float as the incense, and 
imbue the breath of life and of vocal expression. 
On the grand hosanna, as a tuneful chariot, fling 
thine own grateful worship, to roll upward to Him, 
who would have from thee a melody of the heart, 
harmonious with those angels whose kindred thou 
art, for whose companionship thou art designed, and 
who, 

" with songs 
And choral SA-mphonies, day without night 
Circle His throne rejoicing." 



236 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER III. 

VERDURE. 

** Gay Green ! 
Thou smiling Nature's universal robe ! 
United light and shade ! where the sight dwells 
With growing strength, and ever new delight." 

Thomson. 

The rich scenery-seasons open after the repose 
of winter with the hue thus described. Of all the 
family of lights, it is the eye's chief favorite. It 
holds the sense the longest without weariness or 
satiety. It is the -wise fiat of nature that her "uni- 
versal robe " should perpetually please. Yet a 
taste for the enjoyment of this color might become 
more deep and intense than it generally is. We 
wish that we could somewhat present its attraction 
to the less cultivated and careless observer through 
the medium of language. We paint as it appears 
to one loving the verdure with a very passion. 

The spring very gradually produces the hue, 
sprinkling it here and there, as if the uninured sight 
might be oppressed with its own luxury, were there 
suddenly presented that boundless bounty at length 
cast abroad. At first, perhaps, a verdant line may 
be discovered close under the sunny side of abodes, 
as if seeking domestic protection from the yet lin- 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 237 

gering cold. The tender creature may be found 
also nestling in some warm little hollow, where 
the eye may leap in like a fondling from the sur- 
rounding brownness. That relic of the winter, the 
snow-drift, softening under the subtle heat, is made 
to distil into nutriment for this emerald child of the 
sun, and it embraces its dying nurse with its tender 
contrast of beauty. Now a witching stripe is 
traced from where the streamlet steals out from its 
source, and 

" is faintly seen, 
A line of silver, mid a fringe of green." 

There are also large mats of spreading verdure in 
more sheltered nooks. There are fields of more 
fertile soil and sunnier aspect, which soon present 
one broad, unbroken expanse of the new herbage. 
Here the vision can leap into the clear, bright 
depths, and as it were, swim along bathed and im- 
bued with its best adapted and most delicious ele- 
ment. 

In the early spring and in the later autumn, when 
vegetation was just peeping from its root, or was 
withering back again to its root, we have ourselves 
often walked to a considerable distance to gaze on 
the young grass that thickly carpeted a warm hill- 
side, exposed to the enriching drainage of buildings 
above. This firstling of the vegetating fields, when 
contrasted with the adjacent and dusky bareness, 
was a perfect fascination, a very elysium to the 
sight. It is some years since we dwelt in the vicin- 
ity of this particular spectacle, yet how often has it 



238 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

spread its soft witchery to our conception. It has 
been a pastime to recollection amid the perplexing 
cares, indeed a very solace amid the troubles of 
life. 

But we must hasten after the progressive season 
and finish our vernal painting. The delicious color 
widens through the valleys, sheets over the hills, 
runs up and enfolds shrub, tree, and the whole of 
the great woods, till all is one wide emerald magnifi- 
cence. The sight is now satisfied but not cloyed 
with one continuous color. Indeed it finds a sort 
of ecstasy in the vastness of its single-hued range. 
Let it repose near by, or journey all round and 
afar, it is boundless, beauteous green. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 



239 



CHAPTER IV. 

PICTURES OF NATURE AND OF ART. 

" Beauty— a living presence of the earth., 
Surpassing the most fair ideal forms 
Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed 
From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbor —Paradise and groves 
Elysian — Fortunate fields — like those of old, 
Sought in the Atlantic main — why shoiild they be 
A history only of departed things, ^ 

Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
For the discerning intellect of man, 
"When ,wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day." 

"NVORDSWORTH. 

The eye may be profitably trained to observation 
by all things visible whatever. And in many of 
these, which are generally unnoticed, there may be 
found a scenic pleasure worth securing. For the 
sake of discipline, we would carefully notice any 
little protuberance that knobs, or hollow that in- 
dents the land, and indeed any distinctive lineament 
or point on the surface. All colors, with their shift- 
ing lights and shades, all plants, shrubs and rocks, 
however lowly and uninviting amid more imposing 
things, are worth the scanning, if for nothing more, 



240 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

at least to gain -in minuteness of attention. But 
even where two or three of these are in juxtaposi- 
tion, there is a sort of picturesqueness which may 
afford an humble pleasure of appreciable value to 
the studious eye. Wherever we are, almost, we 
may be at our discipline and some degree of enjoy- 
ment. Suppose we are standing leisurely at a 
dwelling door. There is perhaps the stone-paved 
or pebble-strewn walk, running down to the gate ; 
or it may be nothing but a little path, foot-worn 
upon the turf or into the unsodded soil. There is 
a real picture-like beauty in this, as contrasted with 
the planted borders, or the plain herbage through 
which it passes. There is moreover the fence 
around ; it matters not if it be a rough, broken 
stone wall, or of rudest boards or bars, all askant 
with age and neglect. Their odd shapes, careless 
positions, patches of moss, and old weather-stains, 
are worth looking at. Indeed, when the likenesses 
of these are skillfully portrayed by the pencil, they 
are cv:)nsidered beauties. Surely the accurate obser- 
vation of such substances will at least prepare the 
taste for the artist's imitations. 

We beg leave to detain the reader a little by a 
few remarks about such productions of art, together 
with some practical hints appertaining to the scen- 
ery-shows of nature. 

What an admirable picture ! exclaim the tasteful, 
contemplating a fine landscape from the artist's 
skill. Beautiful ! exclaim the less tasteful, in view 
of coarser or the coarsest imitation. How pretty ! 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS, 241 

cries childhood over almost any thing of the kind. 
Educated and ignorant, older and younger, find en- 
joyment in pictures. One reason probably is, that 
the presentation of a picture is occasional, and it 
has somewhat the novelty of an incident about it, 
and therefore seizes on the attention with a sudden 
grasp, as things occasional and incidental generally 
do. Another reason may be, that a picture is a 
little spectacle separate from every thing else. It 
is not amalgamated with and lost among innumera- 
ble other spectacles of a similar kind. The eye 
easily runs round its limits and dwells on its few 
particulars undisturbed by multiplicity. Besides, 
one feels the wonderfulness of imitation and resem- 
blance ; feels, though perhaps not much thinks, 
what a curious fact it is that the appearance of real 
substances which stand up from the ground and 
can be grasped with the hands and climbed upon 
with the feet, may be put on a surface of unvarying 
flatness, and be made almost to seem the very 
things they copy. 

Now, we believe, that with the exception of the 
circumstances of novelty, resemblance and admired 
skill, all the pleasure found in a picture may be 
afforded by original nature. All creation presented 
to the eye is but a vast painting, a spectacle of 
colors with lights and shades. Let the illumina- 
tions from the heavens be shut out by night and 
clouds, and no artificial ones of earth be instead, 
and the whole vanishes, never more to exist, unless 
these illuminators again lend their aid. It is the- 
21 



242 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

experienced consciousness of substantial matter, 
having definite size, shape, and other qualities, and 
also of the different distances of objects, together 
with the multiplicity and universality of colors, 
that prevents the mind from the truth that all is 
but color that tlie eye beholds, to be gone in a 
moment, bereft of this. 

The commonness of the spectacle, moreover, de- 
prives it of interest ; but if the eye does pause to 
observe, it is often confused and bewildered in the 
complexity and variousness, unless it be disciplined 
to particular inspection. Again and again, therefore, 
we commend any aspect of nature, any little por- 
tion of earth, with its few objects above, to studious 
observation. Roll up the hand and look through 
at the space thus separated from other things, and 
the attention will be thus concentrated and dis- 
tinctness acquired, as in a gallery of paintings by 
the little tubes there provided for visitors. 

Gaze, gaze, discipline the perceptions, and with a 
constantly growing pleasure shall be verified the 
poet's encouraging thought, that things beautiful 
are 

'* A simple produce of the common day." 



IX WORD-PAINTINGS. 243 



CHAPTER V. 

SWIMMING FIELDS — DISTANT FENCE-LINES OPEN ROADS 

WAYS THROUGH WOODS. 

** A thing of beauty is a joy forever ; 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing ; 
Therefore, on every morn are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth." 

Keats. 

We now present a few more ordinary appear- 
ances, not without scenic interest if but observed 
with the spirit felt by the bard, or which by cul- 
ture may spring up in almost any one not a bard. 

Most have noticed how a day or two of rain, 
such as we sometimes have in summer, will drench 
and saturate the fields with wetness, so that the 
herbage, while it freshens to a livelier green, seems 
as it were to be buoyed up by the liquid element 
that fills it. After a parching drought, how the 
thirsty eye drinks and luxuriates in such a specta- 
cle. Rainy-day idleness might here snatch at least 
a sip of pleasure ; and the tasteful traveler would 
somewhat forget the drizzling clouds in such a 
refreshment of vision. 



244 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

• The straight stone wall dividing green fields is a 
pleasant object to look at, especially if the rough- 
ness be lost in the distance and the fence appear as 
a dark smooth line marking the verdure. In the 
many positions of fences relative to each other and 
to the grassy level, the standing grain, the rounding 
hill, or the tall wood, there are various interesting 
aspects, which to the uninitiated need to be pointed 
out with the finger as well as described in lan- 
guage. 

There is a picturesque beauty in a simple road, 
with a strip of herbage for a border and a grey wall 
for rim, then on either side, the expanses of field or 
pasture verdure between which it runs. We have 
many a time stopped and gazed with a very desirable 
pleasure, at a little fragment of road thus circum- 
stanced, rising white out of a valley and curving 
over a hill and then again lost. Indeed the richest 
picture in the gallery of art would not tempt us to 
exchange for its possession the capacity of enjoy- 
ing the scenic beauty of a dusty highway, only 
let it be far enough off to give its best display, and 
nothiiig of its dust. 

A word more about roads. Take one stretching 
straight and far through a wood. As it runs on 
and on, its vista of whitish bottom, verdant walls 
and skyey roof, seem to narrow and narrow toward 
a point, the perspective in the distance diminishing 
to miniature like a picture. 

There is also the winding path through the 
woods. You turn this way and that, and perhaps 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 245 

undulate up and down. New objects burst contin- 
ually on the view, and the eye must be busy to 
catch them. You wonder all the while what will 
come next, and where you shall come out, like as 
in the fortunes of a romance. Then when you at 
length emerge, the brighter light and the broad, 
clear lands seem like the happy conclusion of an 
uncertain story. By a cultivated relish for appear- 
ances of this sort, how might we lighten the 
tediousness of travel. How, catching words already 
quoted from the poet, we should find beauty wait- 
ing on our steps and pitching her tents before us as 
we move, an hourly neighbor. 



21 



246 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER VI. 

A DOxMlCILIARY SPECTACLE. 

" Me, oft lias fancy, ludicrous and -wild, 
Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, 
Trees, churches and strange visages, expressed 
In the red cinders, while with poring eye 
I gazed, myself creating what I saw." 

COAATER. 

We have a poet's warrant for the first scene of 
this chapter ; and if the reader has perused the ob- 
servant and graphic Cowper, the rest will not be 
without interest, although the dear old bard has not 
painted it on his page. He loved almost every pos- 
sible show in nature, and he who has caught the 
spirit of his muse will require of us no further 
apology. Twilight, and at the fireside ; no lamp, 
no book, no work ; need the space be lacking of 
interest to the solitary sitter ? Let him watch the 
glow of the intensely ignited coals and realize the 
soothing waking dream. 

As the fire works round and through the fuel, 
how the eye, aided a little by fancy, perceives all 
sorts of fairy shows, a miniature theatre of shifting 
scenery. But the portraiture of our quotation suf- 
fices for this ; so we pass to another. 

Suppose it bright day time, when hue and motion 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 247 

are more distinctly visible, there is the smoke, that 
accompaniment of flame, not particularly desirable 
for comfort or cookery, yet it is not undesirable 
as a spectacle of color, form and motion, to a child 
or anybody else. How mysteriously copious the 
vapor steals out from the apparently solid substance, 
of a whitish blue, from a green stick, curling and 
mingling with the darker blue of the drier. With 
what grace it turns, and twists, and bulges out its 
fleece after fleece, and then unrolls and shoots more 
straightly up through the flue. 

There is another smoke-scene from the chimney- 
top worth beholding. Take a still autumnal morn- 
ing, with what stateliness the creature rises into a 
tall perpendicular column, as if it stood compact 
like a tree, yet every particle is in motion ; then 
there is the spreading out and folding over at the 
summit like a canopy, sometimes the whole diver- 
sified with noticeable varieties of color in the sun- 
light. How often, when but a child, have we 
watched this ordinary exhibition. The eye would 
be caught by the wreathy wile, and be borne up 
and up till released by the unrolling of its fairy-like 
vehicle, when it would return down and be furled 
and wafted up again ; then perhaps it would scud 
away and sport along a bank of the blue vapor 
piled in the lower air. No possible genius of the 
pencil could create that combined witchery of form, 
color and movement, on the canvass ; yet it soars 
above the poor man's house as well as the rich 
man's, and might equallly amuse the children of 



248 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

both, and be a sweetly remembered pastime of 
early years, and withal be pleasantly renewed to a 
scenic taste ever afterward in life. 



IN WORD-rAINTINGS. 249 



CHAPTER VII. 



ROCKS AND CLIFFS. 



" Stop, stop ! Let that rock alone." * * * ** It is a little 
feature on the landscape's face which gives it expression." 

AVOEDSWORTH. 



Rocks are striking features of landscape, particu- 
larly in New England, yet how little are they 
thought of, except by a {ew, in respect to the in- 
terest of scenery. By the grown-up they are 
mostly regarded as useful materials for walls, or as 
incumbrances and impediments, wished out of the 
way ; to children, they are play's ambition-pinnacles, 
on which to climb high and stand up tall, or from 
which to leap boldly down in the friskiness of 
animal spirits, as the lambs do in the pastures. 
True, rocks are an impediment to tillage, and let 
them be got out of the way. They are good for 
fences, and let fences be made of them, but this is 
no reason why their picturesqueness, their beauty 
and grandeur, should not be observed and enjoyed. 
I know some rocks that are much in the way, and 
it might cost a month, take a life through, for the 
shoes and wheels of business to go round them, 
and if split up would underpin a meeting-house or 



250 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

a market, yet we would not remove them any more 
than we would pull a star from the sky, on 
account of their perpetual blessing to the eye of 
taste. 

Now let the perception be trained to enjoy these 
prominences of the ground. For this purpose any 
rock of the nearest field may afford the primary 
lesson. Let the different and peculiar dimensions, 
shapes and colors, be noticed. There are the little 
picturings of moss, the stripe caused by some di- 
versity of the original elements, or the fissure 
which, though small, allures the eye by a sort of 
mystery in its depth and shadow. These trifling 
circumstances might be made interesting at least to 
the child whose taste for things of the kind has not 
been crushed and annihilated by the great and the 
grand of broader experience. A minute observation 
of these insignificant peculiarities will discipline the 
perceptions to be minutely observant when going 
out into wide and multiplex nature, where, other- 
wise, attention might be confounded and lost in a 
roving, bewildered gaze. Besides, we apprehend 
that an observer thus disciplined would be more 
likely to entertain the feeling of sublimity and 
wondering romance, at the subsequent spectacle of 
mighty gorges, crags and pinnacles, so vastly ex- 
ceeding the diminutiv^e things to which interest 
had previously been limited. 

We would form a sort of friendly interest in 
rocks ; let the heart grow to them, as it were, in 
consequence of pleasant remembrances. An anec- 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 251 

dote will somewhat illustrate our meaning. A 
friend informed us that when in Europe, he visited 
the celebrated Wordsworth. The poet took him 
round his grounds, showing him the points of en- 
gaging scenery with poetic rapture and patriotic 
pride. While walking in the garden, some laborers 
there, were about prying up, for removal, a rock in 
a grassy corner — an ordinary rock, which stuck out 
from its bed with a perpendicular and grey mossy 
face. ''Stop, stop," cried the owner, "let that rock 
alone." He then remarked to our friend — "I would 
not have that rock removed on any account. In- 
significant as it may appear, it signifies something 
to me ; my eye has glanced at it and gazed on it 
for years ; it is a little feature on the landscape's 
face which gives it expression. It shall now have 
an appropriate inscription on its little grey weather- 
side, and I will write a sonnet to it." The patriotic 
poet spoke with a fervor about that old rock, which 
surprised the American. 

Now the poet's rock was dear to his heart, simply 
from long familiarity. To this kind of interest we 
would join that of peculiar associations. On a 
first visit to a rock, read passages from some favorite 
book, peruse perhaps the last new work of pure- 
minded genius, or be accompanied by an agreeable 
friend for the sweet of mutual converse or song and 
sympathy of taste. In this way how will memory 
be starred, as it were, with softly gleaming points 
to which the soul shall in the future turn back and 
find solace from the darkness of trouble, or the 
chilly and stumbling night of extreme age. 



252 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

One of the most interesting fragments of scenery 
the eye scans and perches on, are the cliffs in our 
hill-sides. Many a home in our diversified country 
is not without one or more of these in vicinity. 
Perhaps they are set smoothly and perpendicularly 
into the earthy framework, like a piece of ham- 
mered masonry, and clad with green and gray 
moss, as with fanciful tapestry. Or they project 
roughly and beetle over, impressing the feeling of 
grandeur. Perhaps shrubs shoot out from crevices, 
or bristle at the top in fantastic vvildness, or trees 
tower therefrom in waving pride at their pre-emi- 
nence. Sometimes the rock-show is of quite a 
clear whiteness, or has spots or stripes of chalky 
brilliancy, charmingly contrasting with the grassy 
carpet beneath and pendant foliage above. Now 
let observation be particularly directed to such 
noble features of the landscape. Let us grow ro- 
mantic about them — it will do no harm. If some 
interesting incident of the past may be found con- 
nected with them, or with any other spot of earth, 
so much the better. We cannot but repeat that on a 
pleasure-seeking jaunt to such spectacles, a choice 
of company is truly worth the seeking. One or 
two individuals of tender and touching conversa- 
tion, or the gift of sweetening song, are far prefer- 
able to noisy, gamboling numbers. Let all the 
feelings be spiritual and quiet, rather than animal 
and frolicsome, especially on a first visit. Thus 
you will open in the soul a little fountain of sweet 
and tender recollections, which shall be perennial, 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 253 

and sprinkle its freshness at length, it may be, on 
withering age. 

Indeed, we would have all sorts of pleasing 
scenery connected in the mind with the most 
agreeable remembrances, but most especially, the 
scenery around dear native home. We would 
labor sedulously to make the grounds there a sort of 
Eden-place to the affections. Then in after life, 
when parents shall be laid in the dust, and brothers 
and sisters scattered widely away, what a paradise 
of heart-hallowed beauty, will this native land- 
scape be ! 



22 



254 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER VIII 



HILLS AND VALES. 

•♦ The Ilillfi of New England 

How nobly they rise, 
In bcftuty or Avildness 

To blend with the skies ! 
Their green slopes, their grey rocks. 

Their plumage of trees, 
New England, my country, 

I love thee for these ! 

♦♦ The Vales of New England 

That cradle her streams ; 

All greenness and glimmer, 

liike landscapes ii\ dreams ; 
Their rich laps for labor. 
Their bosoms for ease, 
New England, my country, 
I love thee for these I " 

Old ScuAi' Book. 

The Hills and Vales I the very words have a 
charm, embalmed as they are in the sweet essence 
of rural poetry shed all along the course of time. 
How infinitely diversified their appearances ; count- 
less, countless shapes, as if the fingers of Nature 
had played over her continents in sportive inven- 
tion, configuring the surface. • There are broad 
heaving swells with conforming platters of [land be- 
tween ; long ridges lifting more suddenly, alterna- 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 255 

ting with long gouges below ; and the more precip- 
itous heights of all sorts of figures, looking down 
into dells of novelty equally diverse. The pro- 
fessed scenery-seer we need not advise, but to those 
who would seek his rare pleasure, we would say, 
carefully contemplate all their varieties of aspect ; 
con them like a lesson in a book. It is remarkable 
how the organ of form will strengthen and sharpen 
to its office. It will come to detect each one of all 
the multiplicity of outlines. Figure is its sole 
subject and enjoyment, and it will feast on the 
beauty of curves, with the relish of angles. There 
are sizes, distances and relative positions, for the 
note of other faculties, giving to each appropriate 
gratification. 

There is another study in close connection, it is 
the conforming sky. From some nether stand 
among many hills, gaze this way and that, over 
and around, and how the azure dome is bordered at 
the base with jagged cuts, angled notches, quick- 
heaving arches, or long narrow scoops, according 
as the earth configures its own contour. Some re- 
lations of the land to the horizon, present most ex- 
quisite specimens of the picturesque. From one 
extremity of a long deep valley, peer away through 
to the other. A portion of the heaven is close 
down in there, like a sapphire wall, and it seems as 
if you might go and place your hand against it, or 
look through the crystal azure into mysteries be- 
yond. 

Color will of course mingle with and array the 



256 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

charms of form and proportion, but as we treat of 
it otherwhere, we omit it in this connection. As 
this outline of the hills and vales meets the eye of 
the reader, his fancy will naturally clothe them in 
all their necessary variety of hues. 

We spoke of the growth and pleasure of the 
mere perceptive faculties amid such interesting pre- 
sentments of their specific objects. But there is 
above, and reigning over these, another power, to 
which these are the handmaids. Ideality, or the 
intense feeling of the beautiful, and the exulting 
glow at its possession. How does it open and 
open, amid such scenes, for streams of beauty to 
glide in, as from many fountains tended by its ser- 
vitors at the eye. But over all these there is an- 
other sentiment. Religion, to which Ideality in duty 
should minister, sending up its joys thereto, beauti- 
fying holiness. He who worships not from this 
fane of hill and vale, receives not their charm into 
his highest, happiest sense, and he knows not what 
influence descends from the Worshiped and All- 
beautiful, to invest and sanctify the scene with a 
still richer loveliness. 

We would now call attention to a few particular 
localities. There is a peculiar beauty about some 
of the hills of New England, which we fear are by 
many of its inhabitants hardly noticed. We refer 
to their oval forms. How gracefully they round up 
and curve into the sky. There are a hundred, or 
indeed a thousand eminences of this shape, in the 
neighborhoods of the Monadnock and Wachusett 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 257 

Mountains. We will try to paint a scene embracing 
the latter. The Wachusett at twilight, and at other 
times in certain states of weather, is a very queen 
of mountain beauty, rearing its round, dark-blue 
summit against the peculiar sky. As the traveler 
crinkles among the hills below, it exhibits various 
charming aspects, and indeed seems alive and in 
motion, dancing as it were, to exhibit its graces. 
There is one playful illusion with which we have 
been often amused when in that part of the country. 
In ascending a hill in an angular direction, we 
would catch a first glimpse of the mountain, just a 
blue rim projecting beyond the green of the inter- 
vening hill. Rising higher the rim would broaden, 
or rather the body of the round mountain would 
seem to roll out more and more into sight ; the hill 
apparently wheeling one way and the mountain an- 
other, as if turning on an axis like machinery, by 
some invisible agency. It seemed to fancy that 
earth below were mimicking the dance of the 
spheres above, with a soft music unheard by mortal 
ears. Would not childhood, would not any one 
find recreation in this spectacle, enjoying and sym- 
pathizing with the sportiveness of Nature. 

We never travel the old winding roads in the 
vicinity of Boston, without the ever-renewed plea- 
sure of gazing upon the oval hills. We owe a 
tribute to these and all the scenery around. It has 
been our study and enchantment for years. 

What valleys too, what water sheets ! What 
diverse sprinkles and clusters and lines of architec- 
22* 



258 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

ture, peeping from amid gardens or gleaming under 
tree-rows ! Altogether, it is a show that the arid 
South, and even the magnificent West, might come 
over, just to see. It is the very poetry of land- 
scape, and in spite of us its spirit and imagery will, 
but O how faintly, run verse-like along our page. 

Kind City ! Can thy traveled son tell where 

Lie sweeter scenes than thy environs are ? 

Does e'er his soul so leap from self away 

As when they greet him homeward from thy bay ? 

The oval hills, the wandering vales between, 

Groves, cliffs and ways, with glimpse of watery sheen, 

And culture's carpet, rich as wealth can weave, , 

Tinged with all dyes that shower and sun-beam leave ; 

Elysian landscapes round thy thousands flung. 

Which, Albion owning, Genius would have sung. 

Let Fashion forth then. Toil full oft depart 

To study these, yea, get them all by heart. 

'Tis Nature's Athenaeum, full and free. 

Its walls the hills, the meeting sky and sea. 

At mom the Zephyr, Ocean breeze at even, 

Brush o'er and air these pencilings of Heaven. 

Should seraph Beauty beckon them to roam, 

God's stronger servant, Health, shall bear them home. 

Remembrance copies ; Taste, for aye, shall find 

Those distant scenes hung round the halls of mind. 

Send forth thy j^oor, of charities thou Queen ! 

And grace their souls as they have never been. 

Thy teachers with them — learned of then- Lord, 

To show in nature lines of sacred Word. 

Command thy merchant prmces, large to give, 

That lowly life may really come to live, 

O, not "by bread alone," want's wrested good, 

But all the spirit's growth can ask for food ; 

Live in all beauty, eye or thought can find ; 

Live conscious man, mid lordliest mankind ; 

But more than all, live in sweet, gratefid love 

To those who lifted them, themselves above ; 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 259 

To Him, who clad and sent with golden wing 
Men, angel-like, "these little ones" to bring, 
And fold them in their pinions at His feet, 
Where rich and poor shoiild all together meet. 
Do thus, dear City — noblest of the North — 
Of all the land, e'en now, for life's best worth ! 
Do thus, and then, thy populous robe all white, 
With virtues gemmed, God's glory for the Hght, 
Thy presence o'er a continent shall shine. 
Yea, charm the poor, proud South to seek thy shrine, 
In -wisdom's meekness then to haste away. 
To raise her darkened realms to brighter day ; 
Convinced of eqiml freedom's worth — the good 
Of other chains— soft links of brotherhood — 
Of wealth from toil at thought ; of whipless awe, 
Enrobed in love, but throned upon the law. 
Erst Queen of Learning ! take a loftier name, 
The Era calls "wdth its new tongue of flame ; 
A country's Prophet — lift thy baptized brow, 
Thy mission prove, and do the mighty — now ! 



260 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER IX. 



TREES. 



" Bravely thy old arms fling 
Their countless pennons to the fields of air, 

And like a sylvan king 
Their panojily of green still proudly wear. 

When at the twilight hour 
Plays tlirough the tressil crown the sun's last gleam, 

Under thy ancient bower 
The school-boy comes to sport, the bard to dream." 

H. T. TUCKERMAN. 

We now pay admiring regard to the lofty mon- 
archs of the vegetable realm. Indeed they not only 
reign over the humble herbage and bush at their 
feetj but they hold a sort of lordship over the whole 
scenic earth. They stand above the water, shelter- 
ing its repose, or hold it in review as with purling 
music it moves on its train. They protect the 
meadows ; they hold court in the valleys ; they 
display upon the hills; they throne themselves on 
the mountains ; and look down on the subject 
lands. We have spoken indeed poetically, yet 
without a figure we can almost say that we our- 
selves do a real homage to the trees. 

But we must portray them more particularly as 
they appear in their princely bearing and attire. 
Each species has characteristic traits of appearance, 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 261 

and if we may so speak, costume, features, and 
complexion of its own. Wliat gracefulness of the 
locust atid willow ; what column-like symmetry 
and stateliness of the ma[)le ; what nobleness of the 
strong armed oak ; what arching grandeur of the 
elm ; then what varied magnificence of the great 
continuous forest. 

How many different hues the practiced eye may 
detect in the common mantle of verdure. Here is 
the deep evergreen, fir or hemlock, set in among 
the beech, maple, or birch, or among several of the 
kinds together. How tastefully the darker and the 
lighter greens internotch, rapturing the eye with 
their thickly intermingling, yet clearly contrasted 
hues. Take your stand on a height, and gaze down 
into some bosomed valley, thickly studded with 
trees ; maples for instance. Each one roinids up 
its top with a separate swell. The eye is allured ; 
and leaping down, it swims as it were in a sea of 
verdurous billows. 

Another appearance of a wood is the shade it 
casts upon a bordering field or pasture, richly deep- 
ening its green. Stand outside, in the clear open 
light, and gaze upon the darksomeness that lies 
away under the umbrageous arches, and you might 
fancy a body of night left there to slumber, guarded 
by a file of out-skirting trees to protect from the 
incursions of the surrounding day. 

A pleasant spectacle in the country is the fruit 
orchard, with its carpet of herbage beneath. At 
least we know of one who in very childhood gazed 



0» SCENERY-SHOWING, 

with ever fresh delight on so ordinary a scene. 
There were the rows of apple trees, with branches 
so long, and foliage so thick, as to cast the inter- 
vening grass almost entirely into shade. The eye 
from the house-window would run along from this 
end to that, of one of the vistas, and back again ; 
then rest upon the leaf-shadowed verdure, anon 
start to and fro again, as if at a sort of gambol with 
its favorite hue. 

It may be that the reader will not sympathize 
with us in the pleasure afforded by these common 
aspects of nature. If so, we would inquire if they 
would not please even him, when laid in accurate 
picture by a genius of the pencil ? Why then shall 
the Infinite Artist paint his perfect originals and the 
eye not see, the taste not admire ? 

But we have one more instance of tree-scenery 
which cannot but attract the dullest vision, the 
tamest taste, when once made known. We have 
never seen it mentioned in print, or scarcely alluded 
to in conversation, and yet it is a spectacle as fasci-' 
nating as imagination herself could invent or 
desire. 

We refer to the peculiar aspect of the tree, stand- 
ing between the eye and the morning, or more 
especially the evening twilight. Withdraw all con- 
sciousness from other objects, and fasten the gaze 
intently on the tree displayed against the golden, 
the purple, or the crimson of the sky. Mark how 
distinctly you perceive the trunk, and every bough, 
branch, twig and leaf — a perfect pencil-drawing 



\ 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 263 

seemingly upon the glowing, changing canvass of 
evening. Or let the fancy take another turn. The 
object, particularly as the twilight fades, has a sort 
of semi-spiritual or spectre-like appearance, as if 
Nature were at a pantomime of arboreous appari- 
tions for the entertainment of Romance at her most 
favorite hour. We deem ourselves peculiarly fortu- 
nate, when in an evening walk we can find a row 
of locusts, elms, or maples, or any kind or arrange- 
ment of trees, to disport the eye and fancy with, 
without hindering the needed exercise. There are 
few spectacles that keep us away from the topics 
of the study, and relieve the thought-worn brain 
more effectually, than this daily renewing illusion 
of the twilight. 



264 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER X. 

COLORS OF VEGETATION. 

" Resplendent lines are thine ! 

Triumphant beauty — glorious as brief ! 
Burdening with holy love the heart's pure shrine, 

Till tears aiford rehef. 
When my last hours are come, 

Great God ! ere yet life's span shall all be filled. 
And these warm lips in death be ever dumb. 

This beating heart be stilled, 
Bathe Thou in hues as blessed — 

Let gleams of heaven about my spirit play ! 
So shall my soul to its eternal rest 

In glory pass away ! " 

Wm. J. Pabodie. 

Why has the Creator painted our world with 
such infinite diversity, why so exquisitely spun the 
nerves of perception, if the one was not intended 
to run along the other with an infinite diversity of 
visual pleasure to the soul? 

We apprehend that immeasurably more might be 
enjoyed from the changing colors of vegetative 
nature, were there due discipline. Let us briefly 
present a few lessons for practice. 

How many distinct hues of verdure in vernal 
vegetation. What numerous tints of the same 
color not only, but numberless different dyes, the 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 265 

various species of vegetables assume, in all their 
changes from their first tender green of spring to 
the last prevailing brownness of autumn. Now 
let children be trained, let others train themselves, 
curiously to observe all these variegations from the 
shifting year. Discriminate each separate kind of 
grain by its hue. Notice also the alternations as 
the crop advances toward the harvest. Had we 
space, we might point out noticeable traits in each 
species. As a single illustration, embracing form as 
well as color, does one to a thousand observe the pe- 
culiar early beauty and later magnificence of that 
common spectacle, a field of Indian corn? There 
are the leaves at their broadest expansion toward 
the stalk, tapering off to their utmost elongation ; 
and these all waving and fluttering in the breeze 
like so many verdant and pointed streamers. Then 
it lifts its tasseled stateliness, as if in plumy pride at 
the golden riches beneath. 

There are the fields of the smaller grains. How 
graceful the nodding in the gentle breeze, in color, 
form and motion, minutely, multitudinously pictur- 
esque. While yet^ retaining their greenness, and in 
a bright day under a stronger wind, they seem to 
flow away in waves of silvered emerald. But in 
full and heavier ripeness, they roll magnificently 
along in billowy gold. The most enchanting view, 
for variety, richness, and spacious expanses of vege-^ 
table coloring, is a well-cultured farm, just before 
the earliest reaping. It would seem that the sun 
had mustered his hues to a gorgeous gala, in wel- 
23 



266 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

come to the gatherers commencing their long train 
of harvests. Come out, ye stived inhabitants of 
the hot city, for rural walk or ride ; especially, 
ascend some neighboring eminence, and be en- 
chanted. Pause, travelers, on the uplands overlook- 
ing the Connecticut river meadows. The sight will 
leap down upon those diverse, alternating stripes 
of luxuriance, and acknowledge the richest paradise 
it can find between the bloomy beautifulness of 
Spring and the foliage glories of Autumn. 

The honors just mentioned as belonging to the 
two opposite seasons we scarce dare describe. 
Many geniuses have painted their perfections with 
an appropriate perfectness of language, which needs 
must forestall what would be here but a poor dap- 
pling of words. 

Suffice it to say of the blossoming Spring, it is 
the queenly infancy of the year at the utmost 
exuberance of joyousness and gala. Soils, heats, 
waters, airs, lights, have all conspired in preparation, 
and still tend around for nurture, attire and embel- 
lishment. Odors minister incense, breezes fan 
freshness; the heavenly canopy varies with 
shadowy blue and the clearest deeps of azure; 
or it is decorated with lustrous banner-folds of 
cloud which, unfurling, shake down gems that 
perchance drop through rainbows, and then melt 
for the bathing of the favorite. The brooding 
parentage of feathered life carols gratulation. The 
streams purl, the foliage whispers in symphony. 
Human infancy laughs and claps its hands, and 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 267 

leans in embrace on the flowery bosorn of its own 
sweet, tenderly-beautiful emblem. The heart of 
maturer man glows, his face brightens in sympathy. 
The pageant passes, and the year stands up in the 
youthful stateliness of summer. 

The grander pomp of the later season, finishing 
into perfect ripeness, or resting from its fruitful 
energies and rejoicing over its abundance, we can- 
not indeed portray. We will just dare an outline 
and lift away our inadequate pen. There is serene 
September, after reviving rains spreading a carpet 
of freshened green. It is as if there had fallen 
from the skies a carpet of summer verdure on 
which Autumn might drop its fruitage from its own 
yet green foliage. In these orchard -gifts, what 
richness, what variety of hues. It would seem 
that the tints of Spring had arisen from the per- 
ished blooms, and cUmbed into the branches and 
stolen over the products, anticipating the gust of 
palate by a feast to the eye. 

But now comes the great, final display of orchard, 
grove, and forest pride. Go out, now, into nature, 
and let the vision run wild. Go up miles from the 
duller sea-lands, among the hills. Here are the 
nobler maple-woods in great congregation with 
their kindred kings of vegetation, but outvying all. 
The purple, crimson, orange, and gold of the morn- 
ing; the bright, the deepening, and darkening 
changes of evening seem broken into fragments, 
together with rainbows unraveled, and all flung 
abroad in dazzling vestures, and these laced and 



268 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

spangled with the silver glitter of waters. Glance 
through the valleys, gaze up the hill-sides ; stand 
upon the highest eminences and cast the sight 
down, spread it far away wide ; beauty, magnifi- 
cence, glory ! the eye's largest and most ecstatic 
range in the luxury of colors. Turn upward in 
adoring gratitude to Him who holds in his hand 
the penciling sun, and paints this and all scenes for 
thee ; who also transfers his pictures to the vast 
halls of thy memory, to be fresh for recurrence 
through immortal ages. O lose thyself 



" in Him, in Light Ineffable 
Come, then, expressive silence, muse 1 



muse liis praise ! " 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 269 



CHAPTER XI. 



WATERS. 



" From deep mysterious wanderings, your springs 
Break bubbling into beauty ; where they lie 
In infant helplessness awhile, but soon 
Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down 
The steep sides of the mountains, laughing, shouting, 
Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn 
Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks ; 
"Which with the rich increase resistless grown, 
Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood 
Eings with the boisterous glee ; while o'er their heads, 
Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport. 
The frohc children of the wanton sun." 

Thomas Ward. 

Water makes a large portion of the world's scen- 
ery. Ill its various aspects of repose and motion, it 
is beautiful or magnificent. In its figured courses 
amid the diversities of land, it is the animate pic- 
turesque, running away with the eye, delightfully 
lost in wandering captivity. 

We will begin with the most insignificant water- 
traits. They will be of use to the teacher, training 
the child to profitable observation. And why shall 
not the adult self-culturist also educate himself in 
these primary lessons of lovely minutias. Let every 
one gaze on the rill, the brook, or the river, till he 
23* 



270 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

shall be familiar with every characteristic, and 
learn to love the gamesome runner, as if it were a 
living acquaintance and had a responding spirit. 
Observe every short turn or larger graceful sweep. 
Pause over the little eddy or whirl produced by 
projecting bank or intervening rock, and look 
steadily till the eye gets lost in the little maze of 
ripples. A considerable water-fall is always an 
attraction. But even in the tiny rill we would no- 
tice the little tnmult of waters gurgling over the 
rocks ; it is at least a discipline to the sight. Per- 
haps there is a slight cascade caused by a trifling 
stone. Or a chance-lodged chip or leaf may form 
a brief space of sheeted water, smooth and trans- 
parent as glass, and a very crystal, with the marvel 
of all its particles in motion. 

Then there is the bason into which a precipitous 
rivulet may fall and stilly linger. Here the eye 
gazes down into the dusky depth until stopped by 
an impenetrable blackness, into the mystery of 
which it would penetrate if it could. Or there 
may be a bright, sandy bottom, so invitingly clear 
that it would almost seem pleasant to leap in and 
lie as in a bed beneath the glassy sheet. Some- 
times such grot of the stream is so underlaid and 
margined with moss, fringed with herbage and 
overhung with tree-foliage, that the whole water is 
a deep delicious green. A poet might fancy the 
silvery strips, drops and sprinkles of the broken 
mass above, had been fused together again and 
transmuted into emerald by alchymy of haunting 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 271 

Naiad. There is a spectacle of the sort in the 
Franconia Notch at the White Mountains, with 
which the author of Childe Harold, had he seen, 
would have gemmed his lay, attracting the travel- 
ing world to linger over its then classic loveliness. 

The figure of a stream, as it adjusts itself to the 
obstacles of its course, has a peculiar charm. It 
seems to feel its way along with a cunning policy, 
combining convenience to itself and attractiveness 
to the beholder, as it 

" Now glitters in the sun and now retires, 
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen." 

What grace, what majesty in the larger river, as 
from the narrow of the hills it comes widening out 
again, sweeping its shining train far round the 
meadow, then marching through the wood, or 
wheeling round the promontory, till fancy alone 
can follow the stately procession. 

Then there are the thousand ponds, or lakes, as 
called in Europe, embosomed in our country. 
Holding the vision to an expansive unity of specta- 
cle, silvering their blue under the sunshine, or dark- 
ening it under the cloud, they are the watery mag- 
nificent. The eye of taste owns them all. They 
are the fee simple of all the eyes in the nation, if 
they will but grasp and hold them with a loving 
sight. 



272 



SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XII. 

SCENERY AROUND WATER. 

" The visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake." 

Wordsworth. 

The scenery around water, though before indi- 
rectly inchided, now claims more particular men- 
tion. It is a sort of costume to the liquid, change- 
able, and more life-like spectacle, imparting adorn- 
ment and receiving interest, and as it were life in 
return. 

There are the gVassy declivity and pebbly mar- 
gin ; the jutting rocks, or long smooth side of a 
cliff. There are the trees and shrubs leaning 
against or standing upon these varieties of shore, 
concealing and revealing them by turns, and con- 
trasting their green umbrage with the shaded blue 
of the water. These gazed at from the opposite 
side of a considerable expanse, form a picture which 
leisure might travel quite a distance to see and be 
made oblivious of care. 

How charming, viewed at a little distance, are 
some of the capes which thrust themselves into 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 273 

the inland pond or some of our ocean bays and 
creeks. How softly the eye slips from the fresher 
green of the moister points, and meets the water 
that sleeps, or the wavelets that waken and glitter 
upon the margin. Then in another place is seen 
the white beach rounding in under the grassy or 
bushy shore, like a bright rim curiously inlaid be- 
tween the azure water and the verdant land. 

Circumjacent objects reflected in the crystal 
element below are an absolute enchantment. They 
seem an earthly embroidery to another firmament, 
which hollows its vast concave down, down to 
nethermost grandeur. A Parnassian ancient might 
have fancied it a cerulean theatre, where his water- 
nymphs could game in chariots of cloud around 
the golden goal of a sun. 



274 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XIII. 

AN ILLUSION. 

" Gentle Nature plays her part 
With ever- varying wiles, 
And transient feigiiings with plain truth. 

So well she reconciles, 
That those fond idlers most are pleased 
Whom oftenest she beguiles." 

Wordsworth. 

There is a spectacle with which one may always 
be amused in traveling, and in which childhood 
certainly might find curious sport to its frolicsome 
eye. As we have never seen it even mentioned, 
we will enliven our page by its description. It is 
the apparent motion of objects on the wayside 
as one passes rapidly along. Here is combined the 
gracefulness of motion with picturesque beauty. 
Indeed it seems as if inanimate nature were im- 
bued with life, and acting the picturesque and beau- 
tiful as on a theatre. 

Any mode of traveling creates the scene, but that 
by steam-car makes it the most perfect from the 
velocity. We cannot- better illustrate than by de- 
scribing the spectacle to be witnessed on the rail- 
road between Boston and Salem. Suppose your- 
self seated at the window on the right hand side 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 275 

and going Eastward. The grounds, fences, and 
trees nearest, seem to run past as if they had life 
like animals, or soul of fire and breath of vapor, as 
the train has, and are speeding to the city you have 
left. The hills and banks ajong the bay-shore ap- 
pear to stand still, or to have a vacillating movement, 
as if doubtful which way to go, or whether they 
shall go or stay. But the objects at a still greater 
distance, the round, heaving islands, and the tower- 
ing vessels in sail-swelled pomp, are proceeding with 
you, not apparently at the same rapid rate, but with 
a stately glide, such as might befit things of their 
magnitude. Now and then these distant travelers 
will be hidden from view by an intervening high 
ground, anon they slide gracefully out from be- 
hind, keeping opposite to your elbow, as if they 
had agreed to companionship and were bound to 
keep on. 

On approaching Salem you shoot in among ro- 
mantic cliffs, soft meadow-plats, gleaming water- 
sheets, scatterings of shrubbery, and noble tree 
clumps ; here you have wildness and beauty in gro- 
tesquest sport, as if they had caught the olden 
witchery, and were harmlessly playing it out for 
the amusement of passengers. 

Returning to Boston, there is a somewhat ludi- 
crous spectacle on the northern side. The dark 
cliffs back of Lynn add to their picturesque charm 
by taking up their mafch in long procession. It 
may be that a marsh is thickly peopled with hay- 
stacks ; these set to dancing, as it w^ere, round a 



276 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

centre in a sort of elliptical orbit, apparently with 
as much regularity of time and interspaces as if 
they had been trained by a master and were gov- 
erned by a lively music. The eye is quite mazed 
at such strange '' poetry of motion," and the organ 
of mirthfulness catches a brief pastime from this 
jigging of the hay-giants on the lawn of their home- 
stead. 

Further on, the Chelsea hills shoot by each 
other with beautiful effect from their elliptical 
shape and the peeping of houses between. It 
seems as if they were on rail-roads too ; yet with 
all this mighty travel making no noise. 

At length the Charlestown church-steeples walk 
off as on a visit to the neighboring spires of the 
city. And the monarch of American monuments 
puts off his steady sobriety for the frolic, and not to 
be alone in his grandeur ; or as fancy might say, he 
leaves his hero-^hallowed throne, and takes Boston- 
ward to thank the patriotic ladies that he was not 
left a dumpy dwarf through lack of provision for 
growth. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 277 



CHAPTER XIV. 



MOUNTAINS. 



" I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that aroimd me ; and to me 
High, mountains are a feeling." 

Byron. 

We owe an especial tribute to the Mountains, 
and with the poet's Alp-begotten thought we begin 
our homage. We sympathize entirely with his 
lofty enthusiasm. Of all earth's scenery they have 
been by us most sought, most loved. In their 
changefulness of aspect they were the playmates 
of our youthful fancy. For us they skirted them- 
selves with the fantastic mist, and wore a wreath 
of it for a crown. For us they caught each crimson 
dawn, and told of its beauty. For us they lifted a 
foot-stool of grandeur for the throne of the setting 
sun. Then they purpled in the twilight, that our 
vision might have wider and more varied range for 
its evening pastime of hues. 

With what grand command they crowned the cli- 
max of scenery that educed our taste and charmed 
our spirit at native home ; the even meadow, the 
winding brook, the maple groves, the oval hills, the 
over-looking mountains. There they now stand, 
24 



278 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

far-seen friendly indicators of all that subjacent 
loveliness. Mighty talismans of memory ! when 
discerned from any lofty distance, how we live over 
again sunrises and sunsets, and many a blessed day 
between ; many rambles alone, and some in sweet 
companionship ; alternate labor and literature, 
dreamy musings and keen, inquisitive thought. 
How re-appear the long reaching prospects of con- 
fiding hope, and the glittering ascents of bold aspi- 
ration. How our heart lifts itself and thrills with 
this magic renewal of the past ! But anon it bends 
in serene, submissive gratitude to One who, from 
above these heights climbed by sight or sought by 
the soul, put forth a providential hand, and held 
back and bore forward, and carried to and fro in de- 
vious course, ever displaying the varied pictures of 
his pencil, and maturing the delicious, innocent 
taste which is here permitted an humble expres- 
sion. 

Pardon, benevolent Reader, the reference to dear 
landscapes, and a personal experience, without 
which these word-paintings might not have been. 
The name of our topic has been a magic ; let us 
now together feel the spell. 

We would have the soul as early as possible 
stamped with the impressiveness of mountains. In 
the first place, their forms are a study. There is 
the variety of surface shaping their bases ; then 
therefrom their ascent, gradual and smooth with 
pasture or thickset wood, or more diverse in out- 
line, with round protuberance of hill or huge projec- 
tion of bluff. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 279 

Lastly, their sammits : these stretch into long ridge, 
with more or less discernible prominences, like an 
enormous rampart, with bastions builded against the 
storms. They otherwise swell gently into curve, 
moulding the attractive beauty of an arch out of 
the horizon. Again, they heave boldly into peak, 
or shoot wildly into pinnacle, as it were, notching 
in and splitting open the sky. 

When several of these abrupt heights happen 
quite closely together in cluster or range, a curious 
spectacle is presented by the sky to the distant ob- 
server, fancy assisting the view. A belt of the 
great firmament, bending majestically over from the 
zenith, finishes its descent earthward with inverted 
mountain-shapes, of cloudy grey or azure bright ; 
these confronting the dark blue earth-giants in 
grandeur-making competition. 

In traveling in the vicinity of a mountain, it is 
entertainingly noticeable how it will vary its ap- 
pearance, as the beholder shifts his relative position. 
One can hardly believe, sometimes, that it is the 
same object, it is so unaccountably altered. It 
seems a sort of Protean pantomime, playing pranks 
of transformation. 

Again, it is a matter of interest, how the hue of 
mountains changes, ever imparting novel interest, 
from the first peep of morning to the final shading- 
off at evening tvv^ilight. 

How the thick cloudiness of some days will shed 
down upon them its sombreness. How will the 
dark overhanging thunder-cloud deepen their blue 



280 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

to the very verge of blackness, impressing the sol- 
emn sublime, as cloud and mountain seem almost 
joined and blended together in one dark expanse. 
We say, let the lesson of the school-room be left, 
let domestic labor pause, where no necessity hurries, 
to place the mind under such enlivening, or soul- 
subduing aspects. 

No scenery probably tends more to awaken and 
ennoble the sentiment of patriotism than mountains. 
Seas make their magnificence common to the 
separate lands they expand between. The all-en- 
compassing ocean gives its sublimity of waters to a 
world. But mountains — solid earth's uttermost 
grandeur — are a nation's own. They are fastened 
upon a country's form like a vast member — the de- 
vice and creation of God. They bear upon their 
sides and hold beneath their surfaces its cities and 
villages, yet to be built, together with implements 
and ornaments yet to be wrought. With perpetual 
industry they spin forth the 

" Streams that tie her reahns with silver bands." 

They are not only individualized, each by its own 
peculiar aspect, but consecrated by a particular name. 
They are clad with local associations, and mantled 
all over and beautified to the heart by a national in- 
terest. When a neighboring inhabitant journeys 
away, his last backward look, his first returning 
glance, are to them. They indicate his home. Ah ! 
just down there beneath, are his best loves, and his 
bosom thrills again. The mariner or other traveler 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 



281 



across the ocean holds them in his last aching gaze 
as long as he can; and thitherward his heart aims 
its last adieu. On his return, how he labors for the 
earliest gUmpse at their summits. They seem 
as soaring heralds from home — angels of the great 
patriotic presence, coming to meet him, crying, 
*' Hitherward — O, welcome ! " 

Mountains are the final citadel of national free- 
dom, founded when the land was prepared above 
the seas, as if freedom should be esteemed as dear as 
life. Here is the last refuge of the patriot few. 
And if these should be captured, the heaven-built 
battlements still abide to await their return. War 
will not dig them down or dismantle them of their 
ridged walls and caverned embrasures. Here the 
Genius of Liberty dwells ever fast, still sounding 
her trumps of echo, and waving to and fro her sig- 
nal banners of cloud. She never dies. The Eter- 
nal Spirit is her life. He keeps her high toward 
His All-mighty presence, that when the exiles shall 
return, or a nation shall break its chains, or arise re- 
generate from its vices, or when a youthful people 
shall nobly aspire, they may all know whither to 
turn for encouragement and blessing. 

Such are the mountains to the patriotic, at least to 
the classically poetic mind. Go then, fellow coun- 
trymen, and gaze. Stand, with your children 
around you, and teach them to look up to these 
" everlasting hills " with a reverent love. If the 
blue ridges and peaks stretch and tower not within 
view of home, let an hour or hours be spent in 
24* 



282 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

resorting to spots, where may be seen those piles 
and points that so impress with grandeur, and a 
grandeur, too, so romantically connected with the 
cherished idea of native land. Yea, go up into 
their very midst, — Fathers with your families, 
Teachers with your schools, and hold intimate 
■communion. But let all voices be hushed, except 
to fitting language — that of meditative, ennobling 
thought. There study every aspect and catch its 
picture upon the memory ; gorge, glen, cavern, and 
crevice — veiled in shadow or hidden in deeper 
darkness ; shivered crag, rocky acclivity, or wooded 
brow, and far bold summit. Be still and hearken 
also — the sigh of trees, the dash of waters, the 
roar of winds, the resounding of echo — it is from 
the ancient orchestra of the solitudes, ever awaiting 
the sublime symphonies of the living heart ! 

Thus far the scenes, the sounds, the influences 
below. But rest not contented with these. One 
whom the mountain Muse and the genius of Free- 
dom inspired in very childhood, thus admonishes, 
and would bear you up on the pinions of his 
verse, — 

** Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild, 
Mmgied iii' harmony on Nature's face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth. 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome way." 

We would have all our countrymen, if possible, 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 283 

visit those groups of grandeur in the North, which 
are still more aggrandized by the names of illustri- 
ous statesmen. At least, let not any talk wishfully 
of the Alps, and yearn to catch the stormy spirit of 
Byron from their avalanches, tempests and peaks, till 
they have held this exalted communion at home. 

Suppose a clear day in summer, and one is on 
such ennobling, exciting pilgrimage. His first 
vision of the mountains is at a far distance. How 
gracefully they run their smooth, blue pinnacles 
sharp into the light azure sky. On nearer approach, 
they enlarge round about, they lift themselves up 
into grandeur. Finally, stand beneath their might- 
iest presence, and to pious fancy they seem a mani- 
fold throne to which the All-mighty Maker bows 
the heavens and comes down to receive the awed 
scene-pilgrim's profoundest homage. 

But let this spectacle and its emotions pass. 
First, now those mountain appurtenances, the two 
long, deep defiles, where the beautiful, the wild, 
the grotesque and the grand, in continuous and 
mingled arrangement break and alternate upon the 
eye, like the ever novel passages of a romance. 
One might fancy the well-wrought varying way, 
with the lofty cliff-sides and forest garniture, and 
the silver inlay of stream, to be the courtly avenue 
to the august Royalty of the mountains. 

Now ascend. How the thousand objects below — 
rocks, trees, edifices, become belittled. Bold sur- 
faces, even the very hills, flatten into sameness and 
are lost. You stand on Mount Washington ! Lo ! 



284 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

the wide, wide country, deep below, and far, far 
around ; settled towns, intervening woods, streams, 
and ponds, the wild stretch of forests, darkly green, 
and lakes just gleaming upon the horizon. Infe- 
rior but high mountains run away into distance, 
like a vast reach of billows that had been stopped 
and hardened into everlasting stability. Away on 
the western horizon, the Vermont heights range 
themselves, but their loftiest peaks in lowly defer- 
ence. Hitherward, the Connecticut sends up its 
vapory garlands. Other summits do reverence in 
blue distinctness, or misty dimness. A peaked 
family of eminences stand close around as in 
courtly waiting. Overhanging all, is the great, 
domed heaven. Centred amid all, — the beholder. 
What his emotions? There comes up from below, 
there flows in from around, there descends from 
above, the grandeur of expanse, the sublimity of 
vastness. 

It is at Mount Washington, the loftiest of our 
Atlantic country, and grand with its greatest name. 
Let the occasion be consecrated and holy. Now 
sing the songs of Freedom. Now quote the 
immortal poets ; add to the mightiness of nature, 
the living mightiness of genius. Let Romance 
and Patriotism grow religious, and in still, small, 
and solemn tones, find expression through sacred 
hymn, or holiest Writ. Then the soul shall 
be high, and lifted up to the uttermost, till ador- 
ingly lost in that Most High, who was, before the 
mountains were brought forth, or the earth and the 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 285 

worlds had been formed ; and who is, from everlast- 
ing to everlasting. 

So do, and it is a life's one occasion of blessed- 
ness — Patriotism and Piety in a mamentary per- 
fection. 



286 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XV. 



WATER-FALLS. 



Now that I have communed -with the vast- 



Seen the veil rent from Nature's stormy shiine, 
Heard her wild lessons of magnificence 
In cataract voices, 'mid the echoing rocks, 

I feel a louder call upon my soul 

A trumpet sound ; — and as a soldier girds 
Himself for war, so will I gird my thoughts 
For conquest o'er the world ! " 

Mks. Caroline Gilman. 

There are many admirable poetic tributes to the 
scenery now in view, but we have quoted this frag- 
ment because it is crowned with so admirable a moral. 
It may be compared to the rain-bow cloud of the 
cataract — a glorious spirit-like being born out of 
tumult and irresistibly going heavenward. Read 
the " Poetry of Traveling," and especially that in- 
termingling of the beautiful and grand, the lines 
on Trenton Falls, and who would not visit such 
scenery, and also catch the mighty inspiration ? 

But we must enter into prosaic detail. First, 
there are the wild rocks — some round, some jagged, 
some sharply pointed, jutting out, shooting up, with 
cracks and hollows, or deeper caverns beneath, and 
gravelly banks, or rude cliffs, and shrubs or trees 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 287 

darkening the sky above ; then the waters, wilder 
still with their swiftness and tumult. First the 
calmer stream pours to the precipice, then the tor- 
rent tumbles this way and dashes that, with foam 
and spray, and perhaps rainbow, and finally rushes 
into the deep, still pool, as to a bed of rest to its 
tired energies. It may be that some long, high 
rock may form a cascade, exhibiting here a straight- 
ened crystal ribbon of fluid, and there the most 
delicate threads, and in certain positions of the 
sun, all glittering with the fascination of prismatic 
coloring. 

Scenes somewhat like these may be found in the 
vicinity of every town, at least in many-hilled and 
many-watered New England. Let such scenes be 
sought out and become the resort of families and 
schools as a delicious pastime. With judicious 
teaching, what a spirit of patriotism, and of religion, 
might steal forth from the spectacle into the shrine 
of the young heart. 

We would have every American, at least once in 
his life, visit Niagara. If from the East, let him 
take the minor falls in his way. There is the 
Trenton, the bold and beautiful, arrayed in the 
most fantastic costume of rock and wood. If this 
shall be the first considerable spectacle of the kind 
he has seen, can he but exclaim, with her already 
quoted — 

" My God, 
I thank thee for this wondrous birth of joy, 
TJnfelt, and unimagined till this hour ! " 



288 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

s 

Then let him pause at the Genessee, until its one 
long cascade shall impress its sober magnificence. 
But let him stop and abide as long as he can at 
Niagara. He has been prepared to go up to the 
world's wonder, by successive grades of romantic 
and religious emotion. He now stands amazed 
before the power and majesty and glory of waters ; 
and his spirit bows down with intensest awe before 
Him who spake, and the cataract was, who wills, 
and it continues. 

Here might Patriotism swell with its loftiest 
aspirations. Ye energies of enterprise ! tear down 
the hills, fill up the valleys, boi^e through the moun- 
tains, chequer the whole land with smooth stearn- 
ways, until every son and daughter of our country 
shall be able once in life to behold Niagara ! be 
able to come where the northwestern seas do con- 
gregate, and with one stupendous voice of benedic- 
tion bless the shore of freedom, and lift Nature's 
sublimest anthem to [Freedom's God, before they 
depart our country's line and lose their nationality 
in earth's common deep. 

We close our chapter with a portion of Mrs. 
Sigourney's sublime apostrophe to Niagara. It 
should be read by all who have not beheld and 
listened to this mighty minister of the All-mighty, 
to induce them to its presence. It should be pe- 
rused as often as possible by those who have gazed 
and heard, that the awful lesson may not be forgot- 
ten, but even be more deeply impressed by hand- 
maid genius. We may somewhat add by it to the 
chances of perusal. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 

** Flow on forever in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on, 
Unfathoraed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead ; and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him 
Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence— and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty, 
But as it presses with delirious joy 
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step 
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
As if to answer to its God through thee." 



25 



290 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XVI. 



OCEAN. 



♦* Great beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile 
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind 
Inhales salubrious thoughts. 
The Spirit of the Universe in thee 
Is visible ; thou hast in thee the Hfe, 
The eternal, graceful and majestic life 
Of nature, and the natural human heart 
Is therefore bound to thee with holy love." 

Campbell. 

The Ocean ! What spectacles of the most va- 
rious, of loveliest beauty, of picturesque interest, 
of deep, impressive grandeur, does it afford to him 
who will but pause from his play, or stop from 
his labor to look. Note on the shore, the milky 
beaches, the shooting capes, grey with ledge or 
green with herbage, the ragged rocks, the towering 
cliffs, the deep, fearful gorges, around which the 
eternal tides flap and dash and overwhelm. Then 
its waters of varying hues of green, as they lie 
close under the eye or recede therefrom, but of 
dark blue, as they stretch toward their shoreless 
infinitude, beneath the blue of the infinite sky. 
What changing aspects does the sea surface present 
beneath cloud or sunbeam, or as the mist hovers in 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 291 

folds or lies in strips just above. Then the vessel, 
that 

•' Walks the water like a thing of life : " 

what can be more fascinating to the vision than 
this, as it careers on its course in full view from the 
shore. How graceful its motion ; how as with 
sudden magic its form and even color shift, as it 
tacks this way and that, and presents prow or stern 
or broadside to the eye. Then what a difference 
between the shaded and the sunny side of the sail. 
Let the object be a great ship of a clear afternoon, 
with all its canvas swelled to the utmost, rounding 
out like the rolls of a thunder-cloud, and all this 
reflecting the slanted but bright beams of the de- 
scending sun, and we cannot better express our- 
selves than to say that it is glorious, glorious ! 

We would have all the youth in our country, 
from the sides of the remotest mountains, for once, 
if possible, visit the seaside, to behold and wonder 
at the marvels of God around and upon the great 
deep. If they could not tarry to gaze on the tre- 
mendousness of a storm, they might at least treas- 
ure in remembrance the glory of a sunrise from the 
sea. For the sake of illustration, may we be per- 
mitted to present a scene beheld from the window 
of our chamber, at a friend's house on a high 
ground in Marshfield, the description being penned 
directly afterward on the spot. 

The eastern sky was all purple and gold, and the 
smooth ocean beneath, all purple and gold from 



292 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

reflection. There seemed a double aurora, for so 
perfect was the correspondence between the origi- 
nal and the reflected light, that we could scarcely 
define the line of the horizon that parted sky and 
water. They were fused together, as it were, into 
one changefully efl*ulgent expanse. Just at the 
point in the horizon, to which the sun was ap- 
proaching, there soon appeared a little centre from 
which radiant hues streamed not only upward but 
apparently downward, with a most magical eflect. 
Shortly there was a glimpse of reddish gold. This 
elongated into size, then rounded, as it came up 
and up, till there seemed, as it were, an upheaving 
hill of flame, till half the luminary was above the 
water, when it gradually shaped itself into a glow- 
ing but clearly defined and mighty globe, as ready, 
apparently, to roll in its magnificent plenitude round 
the horizon, as to glide and shrink into the sky. 
To enhance the delight of the scene, the house 
seemed to be surrounded by birds, pouring out their 
first gush of mingling melodies, as it were in praise 
of the Founder of the seas and the Father of 
lights. 

Were such a spectacle to be presented in nature 
but once in a hundred years, and the exact moment 
of it could be calculated, how would men and 
women and children throng from city and village 
and the far hills, in wonder to behold it ! 

But now, who thinks of traveling a mile, on 
purpose for the cheap yet intense and exalted pleas- 
ure of beholding the glories of sunrise at sea. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 293 

But, ye leisure summer visitors of the Atlantic 
coast, is it possible that you forego the spectacle, 
for the sake of late-sitting frivolity at night, and 
late-lying insensibility or indolence in the morning ? 
Awake, up ! The clarion of Genius calls, let the 
soul now listen to its exulting strains! 

" With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, 
I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades 
And green savannahs. Earth has not a plain 
So boundless or so beautiful as thine. 

Nor on the stage 
Of rural landscape are there lights and shades 
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. 

There's love 
In all thy change, and constant sympathy 
With yonder sky, thy mistress ; from her brow 
Thou tak'st thy moods, and wear'st her colors on 
Thy faithful bosom. 

And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, 
Have such divine complexion, crisped smiles, 
Luxuriant heavmgs, and sweet whisperings, 
That little is the wonder Love's own Queen 
From thee of old was fabled to have sprung." 

Campbell. 



25 



294 SCENERY-SHOEING, 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SKIES OF DAY. 

" Tlie sky bent round, 
The awful dome of a most mighty temple, 
Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less 
Than infinite worsliip." — Percival. 

How infinitely diversified and varied is the scen- 
ery of the cominon sky ; yet the million mostly 
regard it as the source of fair weather and foul. 

First, the form. The curve, of all figures, is the 
most charming to the sight. In the sky we have 
this in the highest possible perfection ; the lines 
of utmost beauty woven into one all-surrounding 
curve. The centre is directly above every be- 
holder. The zenith ever moves with him and 
pauses above him whenever he stops. From this 
point down to the whole circle of the horizon is 
dimension, the largest within the ability of sense. 
Then the color, when entirely clear, serenest azure, 
next to green, the vision's dearest love. We can- 
not briefly better describe the spectacle than to say, 
beautiful vastness. When the atmosphere is at the 
purest, there is an intense pleasure in a fixed gaze 
just at the one heavenly hue. It would seem as if 
intervening space were annihilated, and the azure 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 295 

flowed into the very eye ; or rather, perhaps, as if 
the sense plunged in and were lost in cerulean 
luxury. 

Next we have the occasional and flitting garni- 
ture of the sky. There are forms, and often hues 
in the flying or pausing cloud worth detaining the 
eye for a new emotion of beauty. But let us first 
trace these fabrics from their source, so beautiful 
are their beginnings. There is the vapor as it 
smokes up from the waters. Perhaps it lies heavily 
for a time, like a light grey wall over the distant 
stream. Sometimes it rises high into air at once, 
and quite compactly with a parted and flighty edge, 
or in broken masses, each with little strips above, 
as preceding pointers to the direction ; or it may be, 
in wreaths with a sort of spiral ascent attractively 
graceful in form and movement. How cunningly 
it creeps or fantastically curls up a mountain side ; 
then, it may be, infolding its crown and matting 
itself into a cap. In certain positions of the morn- 
ing sun, its glances at the mist are reflected in 
the most delicate tinges, as of floating changeable 
gauze. 

Clouds in the sky ; — a scenery infinitely diverse 
and ever diversifying anew. Let us contemplate 
and analyze. There is the separate lonely mass, 
its singleness giving interest. There is the scol- 
loped circumference, the inner foldings, the middle 
plainness ; these shaded down from sunny bright- 
ness to the dusk of the smooth centre. It rests 
like the car of a reposing demigod on the serene 



296 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

cerulean. It may be borne along gently by the 
breeze. Here the graphic and tasteful genius of 
Bryant shall lend description. He makes such an 
one the chariot of his Muse, taking his fancy on a 
world-tour. 

** Beautiful cloud with folds so soft and fair, 

Swimming in the pure and quiet air ! 
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 

Thy shadow o'er the vale moves sIoav ; 
"Where midst their labor pause the reaper train 

As cool it comes along the grain." 

Sometimes the sky is all crowded with clouds of 
this character, a multitudinous, multiform host. It 
is the noblest grandeur of cloudy numbers and di- 
versities. 

A more quiet spectacle is the vapor lying farther 
up and fastened against the sky in lengthy bars, 
over-lapping each other, or with seams of clear or 
shaded blue between. Or it may be, there is the 
appearance of innumerable little hassocks threading 
out from a thicker centre into the clear interspaces. 
It is enlivening, again, to observe light thin clouds, 
lower down, brushing frolicsomely by this stable 
ceiling, with their gauzy wings. 

There is one scene for which the coming of 
summer always makes us glad ; and if presenting 
it less frequently, we feel a privation. It is when 
the thunder chariots are rolling in their tardy 
majesty and draw together and interlock each other, 
as if in thick gathering at some magnificent tourna- 
ment. See their dark bodies, grey borders, and 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 297 

brassy rims. What grand involutions, like as wheel 
upon wheel. Or perhaps their edges point out like 
awning pinnacles under the sunbeanis. But all these 
disappear as if drawn behind a thick dark curtain, 
to hide the display from mortal eyes. Through 
this the lightnings flash or dart along in momentary 
crinkles, terrifically beautiful. Hearken also ! it is 
the thunder rolling deep and solemn in the dis- 
tance, or bursting near with a sudden crash, with 
echo upon echo, reverberating around the arena of 
the storm. We have indulged in rather a classical 
'and romantic view of the scene. It is better, how- 
ever, to seek religious aspects. It is the Almighty 
who buildeth pavilions there, and inhabiteth them 
with his thunders, and beareth them along on the 
wings of his winds. He openeth their folds with 
his hand of lightning, and sweepeth it in swift 
benefaction, touching the air with healing, fresh- 
ness and balm. 

Why should not a whole school go forth from 
their uneasy benches and sultry confinement, and 
watch in still seriousness such a spectacle. In 
the emotions of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, 
called forth by the teacher's aid, the terrors usually 
felt would subside. Il; is on such occasions that 
religion should be made to take its mightier hold, 
and the heart be bowed down to its most solemn 
worship ; and all this without an abasing shudder- 
ing fear of the Invisible Spirit of the scene. With 
love and filial trust, as well as with adoring awe, 
they might contemplate him who maketh the 



298 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

clouds his chariot, and thundereth marvelously 
with his voice. 

Then, after a shower, there is the out-breaking 
sun, the glorious rainbow, the glittering water-drops 
on herb and tree, and the renewed and most glad- 
some minstrelsy of birds. But poetry from the 
earliest ages has been so lavishly rich in its descrip- 
tions of these, that any language of ours would be 
tame and altogether useless. There is one little 
piece of literature to which we cannot now but 
refer. It is the " Scene after a Summer Shower," 
by Andrews Norton. Although read by thousands 
a hundred times over in Pierpont's Class-book, it 
will bear perusal a life through, as often as Nature 
shall renew her original. It should be committed 
to memory by every child in the land. Thus, the 
splendor, the joy, the jubilant religiousness of the 
spectacle, when recurring, shall be more truly re- 
ceived, felt and reflected by his mirroring soul. 

We have already portrayed the Morning in some 
faint manner. We did so because some of our 
readers, we fear, have not much acquaintance with 
the healthy, lovely, fascinating aspect. We wished 
to excite some curiosity, and if possible kindle a 
love. But the Evening — the evening sky, all see 
this, and who of the very least taste does not ad- 
mire. A thousand, writers have reveled too in the 
description. Their word-paintings of sunsets and 
twilights would make a volume of themselves. 
There is, however, one concomitant of the evening 
glories of which we would just give a hint. It is 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 



299 



their reflection from a still sheet of water. The 
scene is worth walking a mile for, at every leisure 
close of a day. 

What a superb reality above, yet a more tran- 
scendant illusion beneath. The effulgent segments 
of two heavenly hemispheres, rim to rim, fastened 
by a narrow hoop of earth. The sun is going, and 
goes down ; another sun, a luminary twin, face to 
face, feature to feature, comes round up to meet 
him in affectionate greeting. They gaze upon 
each other's radiant countenances, and retire to- 
gether, as it were to hide their fraternal embrace 
behind the curtains of twilight. Now, how hue 
answers to hue, shade to shade, in all the varying, 
deepening changes. Of the two, the inverted 
water-scene is the most enchanting, from the nov- 
elty of position and the more delicate softness of 
the radiance. The almost spiritual light seems 
here spiritualized perfectly. The circles of splen- 
dor continue to glide down and to glide up, meet- 
ing together and narrowing as they pass away, till 
they are but glimpses, and are gone. Meanwhile 
two vast nights have been mutually approaching, 
marching round in thousand-gemmed majesty. 
Now they lay together, their star-girt brows in em- 
bracing repose. 



300 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



THE MOON. 

•* \^^en, as the gairish day is done, 
Heaven bums with the descended sun, 

'Tis passing sweet to mark, 
Amid that flash of crimson light. 
The new moon's modest bow grow bright 

As earth and sky grow dark." 



Bryant. 



It is said somewhere in Walter Scott's writings, 
if we remember rightly, that most youth advance 
not beyond sixteen without getting as far as "O 
thou," in a sonnet to the moon. We have never 
even, till now, so far sought favor of the lovely 
planet. That she may not now deem us neglectful 
in our skyey lauditories, our sublunary friends will 
pardon us for devoting here a little plain prose in 
her honor. 

The new moon is always a welcome sight. 
There has been a season of darkness. Perchance 
the clouds have hid the stars, making a stumbling 
night. How then like a smiling lip on a glowing 
face appears the delicate curve on the roseate twi- 
light. Well may it be fancied that an oracle of 
the next month's fortunes is uttered therefrom. 
How many glad voices answer back from the earth 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 301 

— ''There is the new moon — there is the new- 
moon!" To change our figure, placed as it is on 
the rear of the day, it may be regarded as a little 
bow of sweet promise that every well-spent day 
shall be crowned by a conscious peace. 

Then there is a later, rounder, and finally, the 
full-orbed queen of night. With what serene dig- 
nity she rises in a clear east, sweeping the stars 
with her silvery veil. She dazzles not the eyes 
away like the day-king, commanding man to useful 
industry ; but his labor over, she invites his regards, 
and then smiles him away to repose. 

With the costume of parting clouds, she magni- 
fies her beauty to the majestic, and our soft admira- 
tion grows intense ; we do romantic homage. 
Behold her now at loftier walk amid the stars. 
Fleecy clouds perhaps are trooping past, now shad- 
ing her beams, then letting them through folds, 
or flinging them from silvered edges as they leave 
the unspecked, brightened azure. When the scuds 
are rapid on the breeze, how sportive the scene. 
It is as if the queen had put aside her majesty, and 
were at pastime with cloud and star. Our own 
spirits dance in harmony. We almost wish for 
wings or power of disembodied transition to soar 
up thither and mingle in the magic, joyous maze. 

The autumnal full moon is the perfection of 
lunar majesty. It seems as if she was conscious of 
the golden lustre of the harvests, and the effulgence 
of leaf-hues ; and conscious, too, that in the absence 
of solar favor, without her, their glory would be 
26 



302 



SCENERY-SHOWING, 



looked for in vain ; all dead and shrouded in the 
pall of darkness ; the far star-gleams, able only to 
disclose how great the fading away had been. 

The going down of the moon in the deep night 
horizon has a pleasing beauty. At the older phases 
there is an accompanying pensiveness, as being after 
midnight, the observer may be left in a darkened, 
sleeping solitude, indeed to feel alone. 

We have thus done our first public devoir to the 
gentle luminary. To our readers there was no 
need, as hundreds before have held up a far better 
medium of admiration. We might have quoted 
from the poets, but we would individualize our 
offering, though it were through the faint sheen of 
our own language. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 303 



CHAPTER XIX 



THE STARS. 

Th.e faded West looks deep, as if its blue 
"Were searchable, and even as I look. 
The twilight hath stole over it, and made 
Its liquid eye apparent, and above, 
To the far- stretching zenith and around, 
As if they waited on her like a queen. 
Have stole out the innumerable stars. 
To twiakle like intelligence in heaven. 
Is it not beautiful ? 

Fit for the young affections to come out 
And bathe in, like an element !" 



Willis. 



To the informed understanding the stars are 
greater, singly, than the earth's nearer satellite, how- 
ever charming in her friendly lustre; together, they 
are the mightiness of hosts in the sublimity of 
magnitude and distance. But we must now view 
them simply as scenery, the vision's '' poetry of 
heaven." Of all that the sky presents, there is per- 
haps no one object so bewitchingly beautiful as the 
evening star at its largest phasis. It would seem 
that the light of the retiring sun, now disparted 
into manifold splendors and hues, had passed into 
golden unity again, and were inurned in that star, 
and thence streamed down in liquid, yet softest 



304 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

glory. No wonder it has been named from the 
goddess of love ; for if the seraphic effulgence does 
not directly excite, it certainly predisposes to the 
tender emotion in more melting temperaments. 
The greater leisure, and the play of more delicate 
sensibilities at the close of the day, and the twi- 
light's train of charms, all conspire, probably, to 
open the heart more widely to this flow of magic: 
No wonder the poets of all time have raved of the 
"Star of Eve." They have found full response, at 
least from the earlier and more romantic heart. Our 
youthful readers will not be displeased, we trust, at 
whatever portion of the "dewy radiance" we may 
have caught on our prosaic page. 

We now turn to the general heavens. There is 
a singular aspect of them worthy of the lifted eye, 
which we will first describe. It is when they are 
all dotted over with small cloud-fleeces, and equally 
marked with azure openings; through these appear 
the stars — perhaps a single star to a spot. How the 
eye runs bewildered over the alternating variety of 
the vault; reposing here and there on the pillows 
of cloud, and leaning over to the star-beams from 
those cerulean founts. At length some single 
luminary fixes the gaze. It is of larger dimension, 
or some deeper emotion is called up in the soul by 
its peculiar radiance. It might almost be fancied 
that the spirit of some departed friend -had taken 
abode in the fair orb, and were distilling from its 
cherished aflTections, sweet, pure influences into our 
answering hearts. Indeed, all the stars have a sort 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 



305 



of spiritual aspect to him who has a refined fancy, 
and aspires after the beautiful in its least sensual 
forms. When the day toil is over, its bustle done, 
and tranquillity falls as it were from the great calm 
heaven on all abroad, how the soul is charmed 
away to the stars, as to abodes where labor does not 
weary, and the weary of this world may at length 
find rest. At least, we are prepared by such con- 
templation to turn away and shut the outward 
sense to sleep, with the inward consciousness that 
there is spread abroad, within this resplendent garni- 
ture of stars, another universe of purer and more 
enrapturing loveliness and glory, to the revelations 
of which we shall at length be received. 

A clear winter night is the season to feel the 
great "poetry of heaven" to the utmost. The 
air is in its best elemental purity. Let the earth 
be mantled with the unstained snow. The pris- 
matic atoms of the surface reflect the star-beams, 
and spread a darkling magnificence, as a carpet 
fit for the tread of upright man, with his face 
toward heaven, and more than ever realizing the 
honor and glory with which he has been divinely 
crowned. Now lift the eye — lo, a vast canopy of 
blazing gems. Stand and gaze straight upward — 
it holds its central height directly over head ; 
walk — the cerulean apex proceeds with you as if 
borne by invisible servitors above the apparent lord 
of the scene ; one spacious white brilliancy of foot- 
stool, one vast environage of stars — all owned by 
him who solitarily stands amidst. For him the 
26* 



306 

"beautiful vastness " is in jewels — a royal diadem, 
or rather a courtly roof of woven diadems, lifted 
high and spread abroad, that kingly man might keep 
the glory of the emblem over his head, yet be free 
from the weight of its richness. 

Thus far we have regarded the heavens as a 
scenic expanse ; but the picture retains the eye and 
fills the fancy, an illusive moment only. Religion 
and philosophy speak, and the spell is done. The 
crowns are broken, the dome vanishes, the gems 
grow to suns, and the beholder is at present but 
a poor vital atom amid the glorious infinitude of 
another's realm ; he is told that his duty is perfect 
obedience to this sovereignty ; his honor, that he is 
an immortal and ever-growing intelligence ; his 
glory, that he is the offspring of God, who has 
prepared a crown for him surpassing the stars, and 
laid up, to be put on by the pure in higher, holier 
heavens. 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 307 



CHAPTER XX. 



WINTER. 



" Come see the North wind's masomy — 
- The frolic architectm-e of the snow." 

R. W. Emerso>% 

Winter also has its scenery, and that of a more 
peculiar and striking interest, inasmuch as the infi- 
nitely profuse and varied spectacles of the open 
portions of the year are almost entirely with- 
drawn. 

What delicate adornments, what magnificent 
shows, what exhibitions of the grand has winter. 
Take the last of November or the beginning of De- 
cember, when the eye has begun to be quite tired 
and sick of the all-spreading brown and barrenness, 
and who does not remember and feel the scene we 
will briefly describe. 

The clouds gather and thicken, and darken at 
length into one unvaried hue all over the sky, low- 
ering down, capping the mountains, and almost 
touching the hills. There is no wind, the air is 
heavy and stilled into perfect deadness. There are 
guesses that it will rain. But no. The cloud at 
the distant horizon is shedding its contents, and 
there of a hue novelly light. The heights are hid- 



308 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

den, as by a loose curtain of mist. At length they 
drop from right above the head. It is the first 
snow upon the prepared and waiting ground. Its 
damp feathery dabs come down quite perpendicu- 
larly in the motionless air. You can almost count 
a hundred of them before they stop, they are so 
bulky and slow. Look up, and how curiously the 
white, but slightly shadowed millions appear. Look 
down, and how they pat, pat, countlessly and all 
without sound, except it be the gentlest whisper of 
greeting to the welcoming earth. 

For a few moments, how singularly beautiful the 
spectacle of the bright crystalled flakes, sprinkled 
all over the dusky ground, roofs and fences. Soon, 
a universal white prevails, and finally it is noticea- 
ble and interesting, with what distinctness the foot- 
shapes of the household, the cattle, and even the 
domestic fowls, are imprinted on the thin snow, as 
on the smooth plate of an engraver. Such occa- 
sionally is the first picture in the exhibitions of 
winter. Is it not worth asking out-door boyhood 
to pause before, and leading more sedentary girl- 
hood to the window, to look at ? 

But let me present picture second. We will 
suppose it the ensuing day. Fair weather has 
come — a clear blue sky, a beaming sun, and a still 
atmosphere. Now, how delightful the contrast 
with the melancholy dun of yesterday morning. 
The pure white carpet, spreading all round to the 
whole circle of the horizon to meet the pure azure 
canopy. Let the eye be so placed as to rove across 



IN WORD-PAINTIXGS. 309 

a plain, then over hill above hill, and finally up 
to lofty mountains piercing heaven's bluest depths 
with their whitest pinnacles, and you have an ex- 
pansive magnificence, and a towering grandeur, 
such as the stern simplicity of winter alone can 
present. 

The break of day over such a scene is worth 
taking a journey- for. The mountain height faintly 
reddens in the glimpse of the morning, then glows 
more distinctly, then glitters with the richest radi- 
ance. The delicate rose color seems to run from 
this point as from a centre, down the mountain, 
and over the hill-sides, and thence to the plains, till 
the whole face of the snow is in blush, as delicate 
and lovely as the cheek of young and healthy 
innocence. 

Again, there is a grandeur in the fierce snow 
storm, which it is better to feel and enjoy, than to 
cower over a fire, thinking nothing about it but 
safety from its violence. How the element drives 
through the air, whirls round the edifice, whips 
against its sides, obscuring with its flaky mists, 
the objects near, and altogether hiding those at a 
distance. It is romance, it is rapture to let one's 
own spirits loose also, to mingle with the wild 
career, and become, as it were, a very portion of 
the harmless tempest. 

Then comes the clear cold next day. The 
furious wind whistles from the north-west over the 
loaded earth. How the loose snow scuds before 



310 SCENERY-SHOWING, 

the blast, down the hill, through the valley or 
across the plain, and up the hills again, then wheel- 
ing into the enormous drift, or capering over its 
ridgy summit, all as if the snow streaks were alive 
and mad with frolic, like a thousand white haired 
coursers, loosened from the rein. Were such a 
scene of elemental sport to be seen but once in a 
lifetime, what family would not rush to the doors, 
what school would not leave study and play to 
enjoy. But now in its very commonness, not one 
in a thousand particularly minds it. Yet here, 
what power, what swiftness, and withal what 
grace ! 

Would that all the rustics of our country, shut up 
by snow drifts, or shivering along highways and 
wood-paths, could be aware of these solacing 
charms which come with the winter's cold. 

The magnificence of ice-clad trees is arresting 
to the dullest eye, and withal has been so often 
portrayed by writers, and so entirely above our 
equalling, that our poor pen need not describe; and 
indeed it would be dazzled away should it make 
the attempt. 

One scene more — the wintry-vernal, if we may 
so call it. We have the longer, warmer days of 
the earliest spring. Now the melting of snows, 
the trickling of the drops, the gathering of the 
streams, the gush and rush of many waters — there 
is a wild life about this, which bewitches the spirit 
into it, somewhat as the snow storm did from whose 
brooding repose this water-tempest is born. Bryant 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 311 

has thus stirringly sent it through the channels of 
his verse: — 

** Then sing aloud the gushing rills, 

And the full springs, from frost set free, 
That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
Are just set out to meet the sea." 



312 SCENERY-SHOWING, 



CHAPTER XXI. 



CONCLUSION. 



" His spirit drank 
The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form, 
All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life." 

Wordsworth. 

These lines express the enjoyment to be found 
in nature by thousands and tens of thousands who 
are now without it, simply from want of cultiva- 
tion. We have but poorly executed our work, but 
we trust that it may be of some use in leading 
to self-culture, and inciting parents and school 
teachers to inspire a taste for scenery in the young. 
Why shall the sketches of painters be so much 
sought, and the originals of the Infinite Artist so 
much neglected ? It should not be so ; we feel 
that it should not be so. Walk into a city gallery 
of a pleasant day, and you hear a few envied peo- 
ple of leisure criticising and admiring the tints, 
lights and shades of the mimic landscape, when the 
surpassing, perfected picturings of God lie in ex- 
haustless profusion every where, to be discriminated 
and admired by millions, without price, and even 
without slackening the hand of gainful toil ; but 



IN WORD-PAINTINGS. 313 

alas ! now they are as a blank, excepting to a com- 
parative few. 

O, what pastimes of body and spirit teachers and 
schools will have, in the air, in the beauty, the 
glory of nature abroad ; yea what ecstasy, when 
they shall duly estimate the difference between 
man's mean school-house of timber and masonry, 
and this, not made by hands, the unwalled, ever- 
aired, and healthy school-room of creation. 

Finally, thus let our country's men and women 
be trained from childhood up, and how would early, 
rural home, be all surrounded by pictures, dear to 
taste, to imagination, to hearty and to memory ; pic- 
tures to which those once resident there might turn 
with vernal thrillings, from the coldest, darkest 
wintriness of prolonged life. Country, moreover, 
would be sprinkled with innumerable spots to 
which the heart of patriotism would fasten ; yea, 
into Avhich it would grow, if we may so speak, as 
into a warm, living bosom. How could such fail 
to glow with most effectual aspirations to improve, 
and bless, and glorify the land of nativity, and the 
heritage of freedom. 

And lastly, but most especially, let the idea of 
the holy, parental Creator be ever connected as the 
all-pervading and upholding spirit, and how would 
religion be radiant from each tint of loveliness ; 
how would it envelop the forms of beauty, and 
the masses of grandeur, and overlay the mysterious 
expanses of the sublime! How would Religion, 
going forth from this inner temple of the soul, fill 
27 



314 SCENERY-SHOWING. 

with its holy, enhancing presence, the great outward 
temple of God, from the verdure and flowers around 
the ahar of prayer, to the azure and stars of the 
dome. 



THE 



DIVINE AGENCY IN NATURE 



THE DIVINE AGENCY IN NATURE. 



The unceasing agency of the Creator throughout 
his material works is one of the most prominent 
doctrines of the Bible. It is early impressed on 
most readers of the sacred volume, in consequence 
of its sublimely striking representations of the in- 
finite presence, power, and majesty of the Most 
High. The prayers and hymns of the sanctuary 
abound in phraseology of similar import. The 
hearts of worshipers respond to the language that 
leads their devotions. But we would ask if this im- 
pression of the Divine presence and agency is not, 
with very many, a vague sentiment rather than a 
clearly apprehended truth, a profound conviction of 
the understanding. We infer this to be the fact 
from the language we often hear respecting nature 
and its operations. The Laws of Nature is a 
phrase that falls from almost every tongue. Teach- 
ers of philosophy, especially, are in the habit of 
representing the Creator as having ordained certain 
permanent laws in the beginning, by which all the 
27* 



318 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

revolutions of the worlds, and all the processes and 
appearances of matter, take place. They seeming- 
ly speak of creation as a mighty machinery, which, 
once set in motion, continues to go on without any 
further impulse from the original contriver and 
mover. The text-books of youth on Natural 
Science, and a thousand books beside, are fraught 
with language conveying such an impression. The 
term, " Laws of Nature," has been personified, in- 
dued with a life and a will. Indeed it has almost 
grown from a mere figure of speech to be an actual 
person, a very entity, even the Creator's conscious 
vicegerent, carrying on his works, while he might 
be away or inactive, almost as if the Omnipresent 
might be absent, the Omnipotent weary or delight- 
ing in rest. 

We propose in the following article to show, that 
the Deity operates directly upon and through the 
material universe, without the intervention of what 
philosophers call Laws, — that all the changes of 
nature proceed from the instantaneous impulses of 
His almighty will. The subject is one of exceed- 
ing importance. It is of the highest practical ten- 
dency in respect to faith, filial love, and resignation 
toward the paternal Creator. And still further, it 
has a particular bearing on the probability and 
truth of the Miracles connected with our Religion. 

In the first place, we must dispose of the often 
uttered and blindly used term, "Laws of Nature." 
Whence came it, and what does it mean ? The 
word law^ was primarily applied to human conduct. 



IN NATURE. 319 

It was prescribed to men by those in authority to 
doj or forbear to do, certain things. The language 
used on the occasion, was denominated a law. The 
definition of the term is, a rule of action. All know 
that it is not the rule of action which causes action. 
The origin of conduct, properly speaking, is the 
living energies seated in the constitution of man. 
The law indeed may furnish a motive to conduct, 
but it is that centre of the inner man, the will, 
which is the source of movement. From this pri- 
mary use of the term, it was transferred, with a 
figurative application, to the works and operations 
of natiu'e. One of the distinguishing characteristics 
of matter is regularity of appearance and of motion. 
Under given circumstances its elements always 
combine in a certain proportion, its particles or 
masses tend in a certain direction, for the accom- 
plishment of some important end ; just as if it pos- 
sessed consciousness, and was obeying a mandate 
imposed by some superior power, to whom it felt 
constrained to submit. Hence matter was said to 
obey certain laws, or acted according to a rule, as 
man does ; but it is evident, that it is not the rule 
that causes the action in the one case any more 
than in the other. For instance, an apple drops 
from its tree by a law of nature; all that is really 
meant is this, that matter of a due density, and un- 
disturbed by any external force, uniformly tends to- 
ward the centre of the sphere to which it belongs, 
as if following a known rule previously prescribed. 
The term gravitation^ is often used as if it were a 



320 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

real property of matter, or an individual agent oper- 
ating upon it. But gravitation is nothing but a 
word, — a word expressive of the fact that matter 
tends toward matter with a force proportionate to 
distance. This word does not explain the cause of 
the tendency or the ratio of force. To say that 
gravitation makes the apple fall, or bodies tend to- 
ward each other, is, strictly speaking, the same as 
saying that a fall makes a fall and a tendency makes 
a tendency. Take another instance. By a law of 
nature water freezes at a specific temperature. All 
that the phrase really conveys is, that, on condition 
that a certain portion of caloric leaves the fluid, it 
becomes solid. The cause of the departure of ca- 
loric or of the consequent change, is not in the least 
explained by the terms by which the phenomenon 
is expressed. 

Let us suppose ourselves to have been born deaf 
and dumb, and moreover never to have been taught 
the use of language by sight. We will also sup- 
pose ourselves to possess acute perceptions, a prone- 
ness to reflection, and an ardent curiosity. We are 
placed in the midst of nature, with all the elements 
of a philosophic mind, by which we may observe, 
compare, and infer, with not a single word of lan- 
guage either to aid or to mislead us. We perceive 
the apple drop. We may, perhaps, like Newton, of 
ourselves infer, or it may be signified to us by 
others, that it is brought down by a power similar 
to that which makes our feet cleave to the ground, 
the house press on its foundations, and which also 



IN NATURE. 321 

keeps the earth from flying off from the sun. Now 
all that we shall perceive will be the event, together 
with its in variableness, the circumstances being the 
same, accompanied also with the reflection that it is 
of the same nature with certaiu other phenomena. 
The term law being unknown to us, we cannot 
impute the phenomenon to this fancied agency. 
The idea usually conveyed by this term could not 
possibly enter our minds, and we should be likely 
to refer directly to the Creator as the direct and con- 
stant cause of what we observed. 

What then are the Laws of Nature, — those invis- 
ible agencies of the philosophers, which have seem- 
ed to turn the wheels and tend upon the springs and 
valves of the universal machine? They are noth- 
ing but empty names, which were originally adopted 
by a figure of speech for the sake of convenience. 
They are mere words, which simply express the 
fact, that what we observed of things yesterday, we 
also observe to-day and are likely to observe to- 
morrow. Or, slightly to vary the definition, they 
are methods, or rules, according to which the things 
of nature are done ; and it is of course absurd to 
say, that it is methods or rules which do them. 

How has an occasional sound from perishing lips 
prevented the divine and ever-speaking voice! How 
has a little language on paper been as a curtain of 
darkness, hiding the all-surrounding and intimately^ 
present God ! 

But there are those who will readily grant the 
illusiveness of the afore-named phraseology, who- 



322 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

nevertheless entertain a notion fully as unphilosoph- 
ical and untrue as that. They will not allow the 
immediate and ceaseless agency of the Deity for 
which we contend. They say that in the begin- 
ning the Creator willed his works to start into 
action, and phenomena to be connected in an inva- 
riable order. This action has continued, this con- 
nection has remained unbroken ever since, in con- 
sequence of this single original act of the Omnipo- 
tent will. Thus the worlds revolve and attract 
each other, and all the other operations and process- 
es of matter take place. Let us see whether this 
opinion will bear the test of logical deduction. In 
the first place let it be remarked, that our ideas of 
God are derived from the analogies of man. All 
will acknowledge this, we presume. Effects or 
changes in things are produced by man, by what 
he calls his power. The effects and changes in 
nature are imputed to God, hence we ascribe to him 
the attribute of power. By a similar process we as- 
cribe to him wisdom and goodness, — extending all 
these attributes to infinity. So, when we speak of 
the will of the Deity, we liken him to ourselves. 
We indue him with a human faculty. 

Now, what do we mean by will, or the act of 
willing? When we will any thing to be done, 
there is a desire of the mind, and an impulse from 
the mind. The desire, without an impulse, is not 
an act of the will. We will to walk, and there is 
an im[)ulse upon our physical powers. We will to 
investigate some particular subject, and there is an 



IN NATURE. 323 

application of the faculties in that direction. If 
any, however, are inclined to dispute our definition 
of will, or our description of its operations, they 
must at least acknowledge, that nothing is ever 
done by human beings without an impulse from the 
centre and source of power in the mind. Now 
when the Deity willed the masses and the particles 
of matter to assume certain forms and properties, and 
to move in certain directions, there must have pro- 
ceeded an impulse from the power inherent in his 
nature. 

Many seem to have very vague ideas on this 
point. They take the figurative Scripture as liter- 
ally expressive of the truth. God created by his 
word ; he spake, and it was done. They have in 
view somethmg like what would take place should 
we say to the chair. Come, or to the door, Open, 
and they should immediately put themselves in 
motion, without any exercise of our own proper 
strength to produce such an effect. So the Deity is 
supposed to have spoken or desired, without any 
impulsive power to bring to pass. But let it be repeat- 
ed, that this is straying wide from the analogies on 
which all our conceptions of the Divine Being, are 
based. It is assuming for a fact, what has not the 
slightest shadow of evidence. All who make the 
least pretensions to rationality, therefore, must 
allow a divine impulse in the beginning to put the 
universe in operation. But we would proceed to 
inquire if a continued impulse is not necessary to 
continue the universe in operation. There is cer- 



324 'THE DIVINE AGENCY 

tainly no continued action from the will of human 
beings without a continued impulse of a living 
agent. If it be said that we put a machine in mo- 
tion, and it continues to move without any farther 
exercise of our own proper strength ; we reply, that 
this is not a parallel case. The machine is made 
to operate by an active power inherent in matter, — 
gravitation, for instance, and this we affirm to be an 
impulse from a living agent, — even the Creator, 
which is the very point we are attempting to prove. 
The rule of analogy, therefore, and all the evidence 
that can be brought to bear on the subject, go to 
prove, that as impulse from the Divine mind was 
necessary in the beginning, so impulse from the 
same has been necessary ever since. Planets roll, 
suns diffuse their light, matter gravitates, vegeta- 
tion springs, and all motion takes place, from that 
of the mightiest orb, to ,that of the minutest atom, 
in consequence of the direct and immediate agency 
of the infinite Creator. 

It is difficult for us to realize that the phenomena 
of nature proceed from the immediate spirit, will, 
and power of God, because he is invisible. What 
cannot be seen by the physical eye, requires some ex- 
ercise of faith to believe. We can realize the actions 
of men, because we imagine ourselves to behold 
the actors. But the difference between the infinite 
agent and finite ones, as it regards being seen, is 
not so great as it would at first appear. When we 
observe the human body and limbs, form and fea- 
tures, we do not behold the living agents them- 



IN NATURE. 325 

selves. It is the instruments of organized and ani- 
mated earth they use, and not themselves, that 
meet our eyes. Let the soul suddenly leave an 
individual, the form and lineaments for a while may 
be unchanged, and to ordinary observation the same 
as when breathing with life ; but our fellow-being 
has gone forever ; and that which we called his 
person, and which for the first moment seemed 
unaltered, is now a corpse, a portion of the com- 
mon dust. The only known agent is mind ; and 
what mortal man has ever set his eyes upon the 
mind of man ? It is most philosophically and cer- 
tainly true, that the active beings who enliven the 
land with business, the active beings who have 
crowded the great world with its eventful history, 
were never by earthly vision seen. It is the spirit- 
moved matter which alone is perceptible, and not 
the spirit itself. Human agents are therefore as 
invisible as the Divinity. They are both indicated 
to be present, by the actions proceeding from their 
impulses. If the moving of the human limbs con- 
vince us that there is an unseen soul present and 
controlling them, so all the mighty movements and 
regular changes of creation should likewise con- 
vince us, that they as directly proceed from the 
energies of creation's unseen God. It is education 
and habit, that make us slow to believe. Could we 
forget the use of language, so that the convenient 
term, laws of 7iature, would vanish out of mind ; 
could we moreover forget that we had been accus- 
tomed from earliest infancy to the ordinary revolu- 
28 



326 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

tions and processes of matter ; or could we be 
placed at once, with adult faculties, in the midst of 
this visible scene of things, we should most un- 
doubtedly realize that there is a mighty, invisible 
Power moving, sustaining, and controlling all that 
should meet our wandering eyes. 

With this view, the sublime scriptural descriptions 
of the omnipresence and omnipotence of the Deity 
are not mere metaphor ; they are but the earliest 
and poetic garb of philosophic and eternal truth. 
The clouds are his chariot, — they are rolled by the 
propulsion of the viewless energies they infold. 
And doth he not fly on the wings of the wind ? 
Its swiftness and its strength are the effluence of 
his power. His pavilion round about him is dark 
waters. The ocean that inwraps the earth, the 
floods that expand in the sky, are the dwelling of 
his might. With Him is terrible majesty. The 
Lord thundereth in the heavens ; and the Highest 
giveth his voice. He shooteth out the arrows of 
his lightning, and flaming fires are his ministry. 
He toucherh the hills, and they smoke. At his 
presence the mountains flow down, yea, are over- 
turned by their roots ; and the earth trembleth and 
is dissolved. The heavens declare his glory. He 
covereth himself with light as with a garment. 
The infinitude of stars is the robe of his omni- 
presence. 

We would now advert to some important uses of 
the doctrine we have endeavored to establish. It 
gives us a very distinct and satisfactory view of the 



IN NATURE. 327 

manner in which the Creator continues to exercise 
a providence over his creatures. If the material 
creation were carried on by the agency of laws, or 
in consequence of one original act of the Infinite 
will, there would certainly be no* such thing as an 
immediate superintending Providence over our lives, 
as we are assured there is by Revelation. For what 
would the Deity be but an idle being, or at least 
mostly so, in respect to the earth and all other 
worlds, and the creatures of flesh and sense therein 
passing through their first stage of existence? 
Universal nature would indeed be but a machine. 
The hand omnipotent that formed it is withdrawn 
forever, excepting that it returns on great occasions 
with a miraculous touch, to remind us of its exist- 
ence. " Our Father in Heaven," is but an unmean- 
ing sound. 

In what respects is a paternal providence mani- 
fested, according to Christian belief? Is it not in 
the appointment of the unforeseen vicissitudes of 
life, — the lot of health or sickness, prosperity or 
adversity ? But these do most intimately depend 
on those changes in material things which take 
place according to an established mode of operation, 
or in obedience to those laws which are said to 
pervade and control the works of God. For in- 
stance, when we are brought to the brink of the 
grave by disease, do we not feel that our lives im- 
mediately depend on the will of the Giver ? And 
when we recover, do we not acknowledge the hand 
of the Most Merciful ? We say that '' the Lord 



328 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

chasteneth whom he loveth." " Affliction cometh 
not forth of the dust." Yet we know that the 
disorder by which we sink, and the causes by 
which we rise, are as natural, as that the inanimate 
fohage should wither in the frost and put forth 
again in spring. If we are rich, and the flames 
consume or the tempest sweeps away our well- 
earned wealth, if of Christian heart, we believe 
that the all- wise Disposer designs that we should 
lose and be poor. With the Psalmist we might 
exclaim, " Fne and hail, snow and vapor, and 
stormy wind fulfil his word ! " Nevertheless, in 
all these things there is nothing apparent but inan- 
imate matter proceeding according to fixed methods 
of operation. Indeed, nothing ever happens to us 
through the physical world and our bodily consti- 
tution, which does not take place according to these 
methods, or in obedience to what are called natural 
laws. Where, then, is the immediate providence 
over our lives, — a Father's unceasing care over his 
beloved children, unless these material instruments 
directly affecting us are within the immediate grasp 
and subject to the actual moving of the parental 
hand? Our argument proves, we think, that this 
is the truth. The volinnes of Revelation and Na- 
ture agree. The light of the Divine countenance 
is lifted upon us in philosophy as well as in the 
figurative Word. Well may it be said, that not a 
sparrow is forgotten before God, or fallelh to the 
ground without our Father. It is true that he 
numbereth and keepeth the very hairs of our heads. 



IN NATURE. 329 

He is indeed the breathing of our life, the health 
of our countenance, — the giver of every good and 
perfect gift. In all that makes us happy, we can- 
not but realize a Father's immediate bounty, as 
much as if the blessing dropped from an opening 
hand in the skies. From the mightiest to the mi- 
nutest of physical objects and operations, there is a 
present consciousness and care. Not only the 
flying orbs of immensity, which vary not a hair 
from the path, or a moment from the year ap- 
pointed, but every particle that converges toward 
its respective centre is an argument for a provi- 
dence, — a providence over ail that breathe, from 
upright man with face toward heaven, to the or- 
ganized atoms that mingle life with the very 
elements. This is indeed to be the Friend, the 
Father, the All-in-all of an enjoying creation. It 
is a different character from one, who created at 
first, and then left a machinery of laws coldly 
rolling and vibrating throughout his material works. 
With this view, it is not merely the heart uplifted 
to the sublime of devotion, but the understanding 
assenting to eternal truth, when we exclaim with 
the Apostle, "In Him we live, and move, and have 
our being ; for of Him and through Him and to 
Him are all things." 

We may now be permitted to make a practical 
appeal respecting our doctrine. It regards its use 
in the education of the young. We have intimated 
before^ that the text-books of students abound in 
the deceptive term, "Laws of Nature." The same 
28* 



330 



THE DIVINE AGENCY 



phrase is ever on the lip of instruction. And how 
many teachers explain the phenomena of nature, 
and perform " beautiful experiments " on the affin- 
ities of matter, with scarcely an allusion to the 
Divine Author and Mover of all. Like the idols of 
the heathen, which at length diverted the wor- 
shiper from the divinities they represepted, so also, 
only worse, both the teacher and the taught, have 
been withheld from the Only and True Power in 
nature by a convenient representative, — more unreal 
than the idolater's image, — by an unsubstantial 
word. Science seems to be pursued from mere 
curiosity, or to lift the learner to the reputable 
eminence of knowing, or to furnish the coarse 
utilities of work-day life and gain-getting hands. 
Some, perhaps, may have a vague notion of dis- 
ciplining the faculties, but how very few aspire to 
exalt and sanctify the soul by the aid of science. 
The beauty, grandeur, and gloriousness of creation 
are presented as a mere pastime to the vision, or a 
luxury to the taste of an epicurized intellect. How 
seldom recognized is the Spirit that expresses itself 
through these lines and lineaments. This should 
not be so. It would not be so, did all who instruct 
possess the true unction of their calling. No won- 
der that so many of our young men know not the 
truth and the delightfulness of piety. The necessary 
appliances are not made by the hands set apart to 
the work. Let the teacher of science feel, that he 
is not merely the expounder of mechanical and 
vital nature, but that he is also the teacher of Nat- 



IN NATURE. 331 

nral Religion, the interpreter of God. As much 
depends on him, as on the pulpit or the theological 
chair. The teacher of science presents objects and 
phenomena to the senses ; and, while sense and 
intellect are fastened on these unquestioned verities, 
he may take the heart by surprise, and burst forth 
in a strain which shall forever associate the Creator 
with his works in the rhinds of his pupils. 

We would moreover urge our views on the 
teacher in the Sunday school. Let not the more 
dependent minds here be distracted from the truth 
by a blinding and unexplained phraseology. With 
the opening spring, many schools, interrupted by the 
inconveniences of winter, are again renewed. It is 
the favorite season of childhood, as if it found a 
living sympathy in the emblem of its own tender 
period. Of all the year, this is the most propitious 
time for making it feel the realities of the Divine 
presence and agency. The faithful teacher cannot 
but seize on the opportunity to impress his pupils 
with the perfections of the Creator. The little en- 
joyers need hardly be prompted to inquire what has 
produced the delightful change. Let them be 
taught aright. Discourse, if you please, of what is 
called cause and effect, of the revolving earth, the 
increasing warmth, and nourishing moisture, but 
speak not of these operations and elements as if 
they were nothing but a machine. Say not merely, 
" Onr Father made them all," — putting the space of 
centuries between the filial soul and the paternal 
presence, — but rather say, he is making, is repeat- 



332 THE DIVINE AGENCY 

ing what he has done for his children from creation 
until now. Let every object and every change in 
nature betoken the indwelling and ever- working 
and all-loving Spirit ; and the rain shall not drop, 
and the dew distil on the tender herbage, with a 
more vital and beautifying influence, than that of 
your instruction upon the tender and forth-putting 
heart ; and God shall bless the "springing thereof." 
Thus shall Religion have its sweet and holy 
prime. 

We intimated that the doctrine we have endeav- 
ored to establish, had an important bearing on the 
miracles connected with our religion. We will 
now devote a brief space to this point. The Deist 
also is beguiled by this delusive phrase, " Laws of 
Nature." With him a figure of speech has become 
an agent ; or, rather, creation is a machine put in 
motion by the Infinite Artist, and decreed to go on 
for ever without further interference. We hope to 
have proved to his candid mind, that the Laws of 
Nature, if any thing, are the immediate and cease- 
less energies of nature's indwelling and ever-living 
Soul ; that the boundless material machine is inti- 
mately and essentially connected with its Creator, 
and is acted upon every moment, in every mass and 
particle, by the all-diffusive power of the universal 
God. We believe that this agency is exercised in 
that chosen and particular manner, which will on 
the whole promote the highest possible good of his 
creatures. Now if his omniscent wisdom perceives 
that this highest possible good can best be eflfected 



IN NATURE. 333 

by occasional deviations from his ordinary course, 
being essentially present to all matter, he can as 
well deviate from his general mode as proceed in it. 
Miracles are no disordering of a machinery impelled 
by its Maker to changeless rounds and vibrations. 
Miracles are integral portions of one infinite plan, 
the unbroken continuity of everlasting action. He 
who is directly pouring Jordan to its sea, is as able 
to stop it in its flow as to bear it onward. He could 
as well hush the winds and sink the billows to 
stillness at the prayer of the Saviour, as stir the ele- 
ments to a tempest. The resurrection of Jesus was 
not more difficult to his power than stopping the 
currents of vitality at death. He could as well 
raise to life, in the twinkling of an eye, all that have 
breathed and died since Adam, as have returned 
them to the dust, one by one, through the long 
space of centuries. 

Let the preceding view of the Creator be im- 
pressed on the Deistic unbeliever, and we cannot but 
think that he will have taken a considerable step 
toward a thorough conviction of the divine origin 
and miraculous circumstances of Christianity. It is 
highly important, therefore, that this view should be 
clearly apprehended by all believers, and especially 
by all the teachers and defenders of our faith. 

In view of the growing infidelity of the day, we 
regret that the error we have endeavored to expose 
is so prevalent among sincere believers. They be- 
lieve in the reality and sufficiency of laws, or at 
least in one original impulse from the Divine Will 



334 THE DIVINE AGENCr. 

adequate to all subsequent order and action. But, 
this being the truth, what are the declarations con- 
cerning an immediate paternal Providence, which 
throng the Sacred Volume ? what are they but illu- 
sive clouds of metaphor, instead of clear illumina- 
tions from the Father of lights? We apprehend 
that many of liberal education, and especially those 
particularly interested in natural science, entertain 
the same, not only unscriptural, but unphilosophical 
opinion. 

Ask these men of liberal acquirements. What is 
the present employment of the Creator, if his 
works are continued in action by the supposed de- 
puted efficiency ? and they reply, that he is active 
in some new geological or animal formation in some 
unfinished planet. Or he is creating from its dust, 
and induing with his image, the lords of some"^ com- 
pleted world, to replenish and subdue it. And per- 
haps he is performing miraculous wonders to re- 
claim and educate the sinful race of some other 
sphere. Seemingly as if the Almighty and Omni- 
present portioned out his energies upon spots ; or as 
if, excepting these few and scattered localities of 
action, he rested in slumberous complacency, in the 
midst of his perfected works. 



THE DEVOUT AFRICAN 



1 



THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 



Many of the colored population of Boston were 
once slaves at the South. Their lives have been 
fraught with labors, pains, hopes, fears, agonies, 
perilous adventure, and perhaps of loftiest heroism, 
such as the hue-scorning White would wonder at 
and think gloriously romantic in anybody's life and 
character but those of the Negro. Among them,, 
too, are the proud world's " little ones," who are 
high Heaven's greatest ; the despising of whom, I 
verily believe, will be found a fearful thing in the 
judgments of eternity. Let facts illustrate. 

In the summer of 1845, my duties in the 
Ministry-at-large led me through the African ob- 
scurities of West Boston. In one little yard, in 
different abodes, I found three individuals who had 
once been in Southern servitude, and who were 
entire strangers to each other till they came together 
in this city from their separate thraldoms. One 
was -a middle-aged woman, who told me a most 
melting tale about severance from her children and 
29 



338 THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 

the rending of her maternal heart by the domestic 
slave-trade. The other two were aged men of 
above four-score years. The story of one I will 
here relate. 

Thomas Bailey lived in a little room in a third 
story, reached by a steep, narrow stairway. On 
entering, I excused my intrusion by announcing my- 
self as a missionary to the poor. His countenance 
lighted up at this, and he said that he was always 
glad to see any of God's children. I soon elicited 
his history. 

For more than fifty years of his life he was a 
slave on a Southern plantation. It was his fortune, 
however, to have an uncommonly kind master, who 
was an Englishman by birth. He had chosen for 
a wife a woman residing on a neighboring planta- 
tion, near a navigable river. He had himself as 
much happiness as could be expected by one of his 
lot. But the war of 1812 came on, and the British 
made depredations on the estates near the water- 
side. The master of his wife, fearing to lose his 
slaves by means of the enemy, resolved to send 
them off to Alexandria, to be sold by auction, and 
Bailey's wife and seven children among the rest. 
The husband and father was in agony. How inex- 
pressibly precious were these eight living beings ! 
He owned nothing in the world but them — the 
treasures of his heart, legalized by the Father of 
Spirits and the God of Love. These were to be 
torn forever from his embrace, from his sight, and 
perhaps to be scattered also from each other, brother 



THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 339 

and sister, each in a different direction, and far 
away likewise from the mother that bore them, and 
who loved them as she did her ViCe. But this horrid 
separation was prevented on the eve of accompHsh- 
ment, by the enemy's burning the vessel in which 
they were to be taken to the slave-market. He 
now resolved to do his utmost, and dare any danger 
for their rescue. Under the cover of night, and by 
the blessing of God, he was soon able to convey his 
whole family on board a British vessel lying not 
far off in the river. What a foretaste of heaven 
must have been their ecstatic joy at such a deliver- 
ance — a fortune so different from the fate which 
shortly before seemed a very certainty. 

They were all carried by their new friends to 
one of the West India Islands, where they staid a 
year. During this period one of the children was 
taken away, not to irretrievable bondage, but to the 
freedom of the heavenly kingdom. They then 
emigrated to Halifax in the British Provinces. 
Here his home was soon made lonely and his heart 
desolate by the decease of his wife. He had before 
led a life of good ordinary morality, but he had not 
experienced the regenerating power of religion, and 
he felt the need of consolations which this world 
had not to give. By the grace of God, under the 
preaching of a Baptist clergyman, he became a pro- 
fessed disciple of Jesus. His account of his con- 
version and of his subsequent life was full of 
touching pathos. '' O ! " said he, " the Lord called 
to me in a voice that went to the core of my heart, 



340 THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 

and I obeyed him. He gave me the influences of 
his Spirit; then, O! how I loved my heavenly 
Father ; I loved all my fellow men ; I loved all the 
animals, the very creeping things, indeed every 
thing that God made, because he made them. I 
was very ignorant, for I had never learned to read, 
and I was ready to receive instruction from any 
body ; a little babe might have taught me, I felt so 
humble and I so wanted to learn." 

He said that he now felt how very important it 
was that his children should be trained up aright. 
Their mother being dead, all the care came on 
him, and he felt that as a Christian father he had a 
great duty to perform. Although by going out at 
jobbing in the city he might make his labor much 
more profitable, yet, having learned at the South to 
cobble shoes, he resolved to pursue this business 
now, at home, so that he might always be there to 
take care of his children. He could not teach them 
much, but he could keep them from some evil and 
do them some good. He had them kneel around 
him every night and morning while he prayed to 
their Father in heaven. At their humble meals, he 
made them cross their hands and bow their heads 
while he craved the Divine blessing on their food. 
Thus he continued in his bereavement, and trained 
up his six children till they were old enough to 
take care of themselves. Then he went out from, 
home to work at much larger pay. He continued 
in Halifax till about a year previous to the time I 
met him, when he came to Boston, to visit a 



THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 341 

daughter. O ! thought I, would that the fathers, 
even tlie well-educated fathers of this favored city, 
were as faithful as you. I spoke of Sabbath privi- 
leges and of religious meetings generally. " O ! " 
exclaimed he, *' they are very precious to me. I 
could not do without them. Prayer is my meat, 
my drink, my very breath of life." What a beau- 
tiful climax — the earnest eloquence of a devout 
heart ! He could not read a word, but on an old 
desk lay a Bible, to which I alluded, and he re- 
marked that he should be very thankful if I would 
read a chapter. I therefore read the CIII. Psalm. 
When I had got through, and looked from the book 
to the man, I found him bending forward, his arms 
resting on his lap, his lips slightly parted, his dark 
eye distended, and all swimming and glistening 
with the moisture of emotion, and his face was 
alive, every particle of it, with expression. The 
beaming light of intense Christian faith, hope and 
love, irradiated his features; and that old, wrinkled, 
ebony countenance was absolutely beautiful ; it was 
the beauty of holiness; like that of those who had 
passed within the veil. I felt that he was nearer to 
the mercy-seat than myself, and was of worthier 
utterance before the Hearer of prayer, and I request- 
ed him to pray. At once, as if the act was as 
familiar to him as converse with a friend, he knelt 
down and poured out one of the most heart- 
expressing and heart-stirring prayers I ever heard. 
His voice was not loud and boisterous as that of 
devotion sometimes is, with the ignorant enthusiast, 
29* 



342 THE DEVOUT AFRICAN. 

but was subdued to a soft, yet still most earnest 
tone, and flowed into my ear with a melody like 
notes from music-chords. They indeed flowed into 
my heart. I had not an idea originating with my- 
self ; his thoughts and feelings were individualized 
directly from him into me. That prayer, indeed, 
seemed to run directly through my soul — a sort of 
religions electricity, kindling and melting and fitting 
it to mingle with and be blessed by those holy 
influences from the heavenly Father, which were 
ready and waiting for union with the spirit of his 
child yet in the flesh. 

Such was my interview with the poor old Afri- 
can. When I came away, it was with tardy steps 
and lingering looks behind. It seemed as if I had 
been at the gate of heaven, and had caught a last 
earthly glimpse of one about to pass through. In- 
deed, I saw him no more, for, on returning to the 
place a few days after, I found that he had gone to 
one of his children in another city. 

Phrenologists say that the constitutional religious 
tendencies are stronger in the Negro than in any 
other race of men. I believe this aged saint's 
character to be an exponent of the religious capac- 
ity of his people. I believe in all sincerity that 
when the African South shall have freedom and 
the Bible, and a due Christian culture, the kingdom 
of heaven will come there with a power and a 
glory unsurpassed. Indeed, I have the faith that it 
will be the religious paradise of the land, and an 
example to the proud white world which it cannot 
despise, yea, of which it will almost stand in awe. 



EMULATION, 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 



Note.— The following is an extract from a Lecture on " Fixing 
the Attention of the Young," delivered before the American Insti- 
tute of Instruction in 1834. The views presented are respectfully 
submitted to Parents and Teachers, as differing somewhat from 
prevalent opinions and practice. 



I 



EMULATION, AS A MOTIVE TO STUDY. 



What is emulation as it has been applied in edu- 
cation ? It is the desire to outdo others who belong 
to the same class and are engaged in the same 
studies. It amounts to close and personal rivalry, 
and implies that if one gains and rejoices, another 
must lose and regret. Certain external distinctions 
are offered as marks of superiority. In common 
schools, there is the head, and the gradations of 
honor thence to the foot. Then there are medals, 
books, and certificates, held up as prizes to be con- 
tended for. In colleges, there are what are called 
PARTS, from the grand oration down to the insigni- 
ficant and unspoken theme, which indicates that 
even stupidity has been struggling for honors, or 
that idleness has had them conferred, such as they 
are, whether it would or not. Those who receive 
these tokens, or rather the most respectable of them, 
are regarded as meritorious, above others to whom 
they have not been accorded. Such is the system 
that has prevailed almost universally, and continues 



346 EMULATION AS A 

I 

almost as universally as ever. My first objection to 
it is the exceeding injustice to which it gives rise. 
We should naturally say that a person's reward in 
any course should be in proportion to his exertions. 
When one arrives at some exalted station, through 
a long course of unremitted and laudable endeavor, 
our feelings toward him in respect to the distinction, 
are far different from what they would be, had it 
been conferred on him by inheritance, or by the 
intrigues or blind impulse of party. Supposing that 
the language of Scripture is to be literally fulfilled, 
and that mankind are to be rewarded and punished 
in a future life by judicial decision, all would an- 
ticipate, with the utmost confidence, from Infinite 
justice, that it would reward according to the efforts 
that had been made, and the difficulties that had 
been overcome. No one would dishonor the Divine 
judgment-seat, with even the flitting fancy, that he 
whose moral path had been smooth and of easy 
ascent, would receive so warm a plaudit and so rich 
a crown, as he who had attained the same height 
over a rough and impeded way. Reason and con- 
science tell us what would be justice in heaven,, 
and should we listen, would they not tell us what 
would be justice on earth ? In the educational 
course, if external rewards are conferred, ought 
they not to be conferred according to the same rule ; 
that is, according to the exertions made, and the 
obstacles surmounted ? But it is not so in our sem- 
inaries of learning. There, the members of a class 
are treated as if they all possessed by nature equal 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 347 

ability to run the same race, and that the differ- 
ence between one and another, lay in the heart — in 
the will rather than in the intellect. The purpose 
of the rewards proposed, is to arouse the sleeping 
affections, and impel the sluggish will. Of course, 
the award ought to be made somewhat in propor- 
tion as the heart has been given to duty. 

Now scholars differ from each other in intellectual 
capacity, full as much as in features or in bodily 
dimensions and strength, and perhaps more. Some 
are inferior to others in certain particular faculties, 
and some are inferior in the whole intellect. There 
are those whom nature has endowed with extraor- 
dinary talents. These will, perhaps, assume and 
maintain the first rank at recitation, with very little 
exertion in comparison with others. Such have 
been known to be among the most idle and dissi- 
pated at college, and yet to bear away some of the 
first honors, when in fact there belonged to them 
no more real desert for their scholarship, than be- 
longed to Goliath for wielding a spear like a 
weaver's beam in his giant hand, instead of a 
weapon of ordinary size. It may not indeed very 
often happen that a brilliant but profligate young 
man takes the higher honors, but it does very fre- 
quently, indeed I may say always, happen that the 
rewards are in proportion to natural capacity, rather 
than to exertion or a conscientious devotion to the 
objects of education. Now is this justice? It 
surely is ; I hear it replied by the advocate for 
emulation. If a youth possesses superior powers, 



348 EMULATION AS A 

" he has a right to all the fruits of these powers. 
He has a right to take the standing his Maker has 
given him. It is his estate to which he can make 
out the best of all titles — the gift of God." It is 
rejoined tliat such a youth has justice done him, he 
enjoys the fruits of his powers, he takes his proper 
standing, whether the head of a spelling class at 
school or the English oration at college be given 
him or not. His abilities, if exercised, will be 
known ; his companions will accord to him the 
distinction of possessing them, and he will be con- 
scious of them himself. Now this accorded dis- 
tinction, and this conscious possession, are those 
fruits which he has a right to enjoy. Besides, the 
ease with which he can accomplish his studies, is 
another happy consequence which no one can take 
from him. Then again, the Phrenologists main- 
tain that God's own finger, as it were, writes the 
name and the number of talents on the very brow 
of their possessor, for all the world to read, will 
they but study the divine hand-writing. If this be 
true, there are insignia before the eyes of all, which 
no man can take away. At any rate, to say that 
talent cannot have its proper standing and due 
honor, without medals, parts, and other prizes, is 
about the same as saying that the great stars of 
heaven show not forth their superior magnitude and 
surpassing glory, unless observed through a gilded 
telescope. 

The next objection which may be brought against 
emulation, as it has been used, is the injury to 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 349 

health of which it is often the occasion. The 
close competition between individuals, in our col- 
leges especially, has laid the foundation, in many a 
constitution, for feeble health the whole life after- 
ward. It has caused many to be cut off in the 
flower of their days. A young man born in pov- 
erty and obscurity, is endued with a superior 
nature. He aspires to ascend the intellectual 
heights and command that wide horizon of knowl- 
edge which is the privilege of the educated few. 
He flings aside the rustic's tools and garb, and fits 
hastily for college. He perhaps barely enters, in 
consequence of too brief a preparation. There he 
finds that rank and distinction depend on brilliancy 
of recitation. He has not wealth, he has not gen- 
teel and influential connections, and he feels that 
his success in life, at the outset at least, depends 
somewhat on his collegiate standing. A high 
standing then, he is resolved to attain ; but it is only 
by severe, sickening, and an almost killing appli- 
cation that he can rise above his disadvantages. 
He bows himself to the work, and he bows himself 
perhaps to the yoke of long and wretched infirmity, 
in consequence. Perhaps he is borne from con- 
sumption's lingering bed to the grave, before half 
the collegiate course shall have been passed. He 
had better continued at the hammer or the plough, 
and been contented with the reading of labor's 
scanty leisure. 

But it is not always the student, such as just 
described, who is the only sufferer ; the rich, the 
30 



350 EMULATION AS A 

well prepared, and at the same time highly talented, 
sometimes sacrifice health and life to the merciless 
spirit of emulation. Now the physical well-being 
of the young, should be most carefully watched 
over by their instructors and guardians. Is not a 
system, therefore, which directly tends to the de- 
struction or jeopardy of health, to say the least, 
somewhat questionable ? 

I have spoken of the danger of the emulation 
system to the bodily health ; there is still greater 
and more general danger to the spiritual nature. 
What anxieties does it occasion to the alternately 
hoping and fearing aspirant ! What discourage- 
ment, despondency, disappointment, and des[iair, 
does it introduce into wliat should be the calm, 
self-possessed, and steadily advancing mind! Then 
there is that bane of tlie sweet social relations, 
envy ; and with it, detraction ; and next, bitter 
malignity. Such, at least, is the tendency of emu- 
lation. The principle may be likened to that dia- 
bolical spirit who was the father of sin, who was 
the mother of death. 

There is another evil ; emulation diverts the stu- 
dent's aim from the real end of study. He is 
gradually led to think, not of the discipline of his 
mind and the acquisition of knowledge, but of the 
mere art of recitation and the mark he may thereby 
acquire. I have known young men who entered 
college with no other intention than to inform and 
elevate and strengthen their minds, who soon for- 
got everything but the paltry honors they must 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 351 

yield to their rivals, if they did not strive for them 
themselves. The pleasures of study were alto- 
gether swallowed up in hopes and fears about reci- 
tation and rank. And they were heartily rejoiced 
when the collegiate course was terminated, not be- 
cause they had been educated and prepared for 
higli nsefuhiess, but because the torture of rivalry 
was done, and they were freed from anxiety and 
miserable suspense, concerning their final standing 
and closing honors. 

Again, emulation has been far from producing its 
intended effect. It has had a directly contrary 
effect on no small portion of students. Nearly, if 
not quite one-half of every class at college, are 
entirely um'eached by this {)rinciple, unless it be to 
stop and stupefy the intellect, instead of stimulating 
it. They reason in this way — if we cannot stand 
high^ let us have no* standing at all. Let us be 
known as devoting our time to anything rather than 
our prescribed books, then our low rank wdl be 
imputed not to the lack of talents, but of industry. 
Some of the young at the greater seminaries, much 
prefer to be thought destitute of morals than of 
intellect. I have no doubt that emulation, in past 
times, has been of considerable use, in consequence 
of the absence of other aud better motives. Had 
this principle not been artificially and keenly ex- 
cited, and other motives not been applied, there 
would indeed have been but little study, and 
our seminaries would have been little better than 
halls of amusement and social lounging places. 



352 EMULATION AS A 

The philosopFiy of youthful nature has not been 
understood, and the true and best modes of educa- 
tion Iiave been undiscovered ; during this period of 
ignorance, the emulation of the schools has been 
better than no exciting motive at all. For, a large 
portion of the studies have been of such a charac- 
ter, or have been presented in such a manner, that 
the youth would hardly pursue them with dili- 
gence, without some strong stimulant. He would 
scarcely do it for the simple pleasure of study. 
Emulation, like the principle of resentment, was 
implanted by the Creator, to be of use in the pri- 
mary stages of the progress of our race, when the 
animal prevailed over the spiritual, in the human 
constitution. As better motives become understood 
and can be brought to bear on the conduct with 
efficiency, this primitive, coarse and heathen stimu- 
lant should be let alone. Nevertheless, it will not 
altogether slumber, but, like resentment, it will 
kindle up and fire the heart sufficiently, without 
any artificial cherishing. 

No one is pleased to be outdone. You may say 
not a word about excelling, present no prize, and 
accord not the least external distinction, and still 
the native emulation of many will not permit them 
to be easily excelled. I have no objection to this 
natural and gentle operation of the principle in 
question, provided that envy and other imhappy 
feelings do not intrude into its company. I would 
even say that there are some cases in which I 
would take pains to excite emulation to keener ac- 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 



353 



tion. There is now and then a dull and sluggish 
soul, which needs the aid of such a stimulant. 
" In such hearts this quickening fire needs to be 
lighted up," that is, I would add, if all better and 
nobler motives fail of effect. But that these few 
may be properly affected, it is not necessary to con- 
tinue that system of external and graduated distinc- 
tions, now in general use. The dull and sluggish, 
the doubtful and discouraged, better go directly to 
the manual drudgeries of life, than that others, 
many or few, should rankle with the prick of a 
goad, they do not need. But under the operation 
of this system, let it be repealed, where one of the 
above mentioned unfortunate natures is happily 
excited, two are made more inveterately stupid, or 
plunged into a gloomier despair. 

Permit me now to propose a substitute for the 
objectionable principle, which may be brought, I 
think, to bear with no small effect on the minds 
and efforts of the young. I can call this substitute 
by no better name than self-emulation. Let the 
young be encouraged to study, from a comparison 
of themselves with themselves. One of the first 
principles developed in our nature, is the love of 
increasing power. The child delights to excel 
himself — to do more than he has ever done before. 
What beaming pleasure on the countenance, when 
he can take a few more steps without falling, or 
can lift and hold with his little hands a larger and 
heavier article, or when he has mastered in articu- 
lation and memory another word ! Now let this 
30* 



354 EMULATION AS A 

principle be seized on early, and used continually. 
When the pupil enters school, let the teacher, as 
far as may be, acquaint himself with his natural 
capacities, and with the acquisitions already made. 
Let a record of these be put in a book, kept for this 
purpose. Let this record be the starting point, 
from which his future progress is to be measured. 
Let him be made acquainted with his own condi- 
tion and capabihties, and receive approbation in 
proportion as he shall rise above this point. Let 
the pupil be continually referred to his past condi- 
tion, as one from which he is continually to dis- 
tance himself, according to the ability naturally 
possessed, for this is always to be taken into the 
account ; then, if progress be unavoidably slow, 
the endeavor will receive the commendation. In 
this way, there need be no straining and abuse of 
nature, no anxiety of heart ; the path of learning 
may be one of pleasantness and peace. 

In this spirit of self-comparison and self-surpass- 
ing, there is a rivalship which can do no harm. 
Here, too, is a rival always present, if I may con- 
tinue thus figuratively to speak. Self is always 
present with self. The exertions cannot be relaxed 
for the want of the exciting cause. 

This emulation may be applied to the whole 
man — to moral as well as intellectual improvement. 
Let the moral character be always taken into the 
account, and put on the register likewise. It has 
been an exceeding and very lamentable mistake, 
that the mental and moral education have been ^o 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 355 

separated, or rather, perhaps, that the moral has 
been so utterly neglected on all hands. Whoever 
has the charge of a young rnind, should be a moral 
educator ; should be as well qualified in this respect 
as in every other ; should be as scrupulous and un- 
weariedly assiduous in this respect as in any other. 
But I will defer further remark on this topic to 
another head of my lecture. Let me now insist 
that the condition and character of the whole mind 
be registered, from time to time, in the appropriate 
book. This registry is a very important particular. 
The remembrances of both teacher and pupil are 
more or less evanescent, and may be inaccurate. 
They may not correspond with each other, any 
more than business accounts which buyer and seller 
carry only in the memory. But black and white, 
which both agree upon at the time, cannot after- 
ward be disputed. These notations strike the 
senses, and thereby give impulse to the feelings. 
They are like mile-stones on the way, to inform how 
far we have come, and with what speed we are 
moving. 

In the examinations of schools and colleges, let 
the record be open to those appointed to examine 
the classes. Let them be open to the inspection of 
any one, and especially of the anxious relatives and 
interested friends of the pupil, that they may know 
his exact merits through the whole course. How 
little, l)0W very little do parents know of the con- 
dition and character of their sons in college. As to 
their intellectual standing, the parts, as they are 



356 EMULATION AS A 

called, indicate something, but nothing very accu- 
rately. If a young man receives a low part, or 
none at all, his confiding friends are easily made to 
believe that the college dispensers of honor have 
been unjust. But of the moral character of a son, 
the parents in general know absolutely nothing. 
They can judge only from the exhibitions of him- 
self he makes at home. If the youth happens to 
receive the distinction of rustication or dismission, 
it must of course be supposed that all is not right. 
But even these notorious tokens of disapprobation, 
do by no means accurately indicate the character. 
Sometimes the simple-hearted and quite iimocent, 
having been allured into some sportive enterprise, 
are detected and punished, although their moral 
character, in general, may be incomparably superior 
to many who hold the noiseless but dark and devi- 
ous tenor of their way. Instances could be men- 
tioned, in which parents have rejoiced that their sons 
were so diligent and orderly at the distant seminary, 
when at this very time, these loved and hopeful 
ones were among the most idle and dissolute. 

Now, in the proposed registry of character, there 
can be no deception, no escape. At any time, the 
scholarship and the morals may be ascertained, by 
making the proper reference. What if friends be 
mortified and the youth put to shame ? Is it not 
better, than that his time and money be utterly 
thrown away, and perhaps his constitution be in- 
jured or his morals corrupted for life ? But such 
mortification and shame will very seldom take 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 357 

place. The youth will understand, at the threshold 
of the seminary, the system to be pursued and the 
destiny awaiting. He knows that a map of his 
whole character is to be drawn, as far as it is dis- 
coverable, and that this is to be open to the inspec- 
tion of all, and to remain in the archives of the 
institution, to be traced by all his friends, and even 
descendants, who may enter or visit the seminary, 
forever afterwards. Now should the student know 
all this beforehand, and be continually conscious of 
it as he proceeds, he would, I doubt not, commence 
with an impulse, go on with a momentum, and 
close with an improvement and an honor, which 
would cause the venerable Alma Mater, now slum- 
bering in her prejudices, to rejoice most heartily 
that she had at length awaked from her ancient 
repose. The instances of mortification and shame 
would be far less numerous than they are now, as 
seldom as mortifying and shameful things now 
come to light. I believe that self-emulation would 
be a very general feeling, and self-improvement the 
general aim and attainment. 

" But this system will cost quite too much 
trouble. It will require a minuteness of super- 
vision which cannot be afforded. The plan is not 
feasible." In answer to this objection it may be 
observed, that it is more than probable that the 
time and money now expended in the long run, in 
managing the refractory, quelling rebellions, and 
repairing depredations, would be amj)ly sufficient 
for the constant and minute supervision of the plan 



358 EMULATION AS A 

proposed. But if it be not so, let all pomp, show 
and circumstance be abolished, which do not confer 
a greater good on our seminaries than might be 
obtained in some other way, at the same expense. 
Why shall usages be retained simply because they 
are usages ? It is the best possible education of the 
greatest possible number that we want, and at the 
least possible cost consistent with the greatest good 
on the whole. Must the great and widely scattered 
public suffer, that the pleasant literary associations 
of a few may be kept fresh and not lose their hold 
on the heart ? I have no particular objections, 
however, against the customary literary festivals. 
All I would urge is, that they had better be abol- 
ished than that such minute and particular attention 
should not be given to each individual, as to confer 
on him the most thorough mental and moral educa- 
tion. Let the great end be kept always broad in 
view, and the most direct course be taken towards 
that end. Let the paths of education, like those of 
business, be straight. The people of the country, 
in visiting the city, make the most of time and 
money. They do not wind along the ancient and 
crooked, but more verdant and flower-scented ways ; 
they take the turnpike and the rail-road. So it 
should be with those they employ to educate their 
children. Their road should be straight ; and they 
should adopt, moreover, whatever new and real 
facilities, invention may from time to time bring to 
light. 

It may be thought that too much is expected 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 359 

from this hooking of character and this self-emula- 
lation. It is replied, that these are but a part of the 
system ; these alone, truly, may not produce the 
effect above anticipated. Light should be thrown 
on the student's way, and impulse given to his 
heart in coimection with these. For instance, the 
student should have instruction respecting his na- 
ture and destiny, such as hitherto has been very 
uncommon in schools and colleges. The young 
have generally entered and continued in these insti- 
tutions as thoughtless, and indeed as ignorant of the 
real objects of existence and ends of education, as 
they were of the particulars of a science which had 
not yet been discovered. They go to college, for 
instance, because custom has made a course there 
necessary to what are called the learned professions. 
Or they go to attain a respectability of standing 
which they could not otherwise possess. 

At academies and common schools, no better 
views, nor generally so good, could be expected to 
prevail. Now such are the motives with which 
parents send their children to the places of learn- 
ing, and such are the motives with which their 
children go, if they go from any other motive than 
that they are sent. And are they imbued with a 
loftier spirit by their instructors ? Most certainly 
not, in general. Now it ought not to be thus. A 
child should be taught as early as he is capable, his 
real nature and great destiny. He should be taught 
that his true self is a soul, and not the material, 
sensual and perishable body. Let him know that 



360 EMULATION AS A 

this is but the " house he lives in," to quote the 
apt language of a benefactor of youth. Make him 
reahze that the house was made for the iimiate, and 
not the inmate for the house. Make him reahze 
that himself, that is, this invisible but conscious 
soul, shall not and cannot die as the body does. 
Let him understand that going to school, that 
education, has reference to a future life ; to eteniity 
as well as to time. That indeed it may make him 
more respectable and useful, comfortable and happy 
in this life, but the principal end is the life to come. 
Teach him that every step forward in true knowl- 
edge, is an advance on an endless way ; that every 
new truth he acquires is his forever, a treasure, as it 
were, laid up in heaven; and that increasing strength 
and facility is a preparation for, and an approach to, 
that ability necessary to climb the heights, gather 
tl\e riches, and wear the glories of the spiritual 
universe. I would, of course, use a simpler mode 
of exjiression than this, always adapting the lan- 
guage to the young comprehension. Now, fill the 
pupil's soul and fire his aspirations, as early as pos- 
sible, with these ideas, and let them glow with an 
increasing faith and fervency, as he shall proceed 
from stage to stage, and with what exceeding effect 
may they be brought to bear on the later periods of 
his education. Then the sciences of the material 
creation will be presented to him, in all their beau- 
tiful details and magnificent extent ; then the prin- 
ciples of that mind will be more clearly unfolded, 
by which he has dominion over the Divine works, 



MOTIVE TO STUDY. 361 

and by which, like the Infinite Maker himself, he 
has a glory above the heavens. And then he can- 
not but feel how unworthy of himself is idleness, 
and how utterly beneath himself and abominable, 
is that sensuality into which the young man is now 
so prone to fall. 

When the young shall thus duly realize that the 
great end, not only of this life but of eternity, is 
the growth of the soul, how will self-emulation 
take hold of the spirit with ever-abiding and ever- 
impelling power. They will constantly realize 
that it is as much their nature and destiny to rise 
perpetually above their present selves, as it is to 
think and to feel. To catch the beautiful figure of 
the Lecture on Emulation, of last year, that ladder 
which the sleeping Patriarch saw in his dream, will 
be placed before the youth without a vision ; its 
foot supported by earth, its summit leaning on the 
skies. Most truly the ladder will be before him, 
without those evil remembrances, class emulation 
and personal rivalry. He may not be unconscious 
of the radiant way, and active steps of ascending 
companions ; but his intenser thoughts will be given 
to the beckoning angels, leaning with sweet sym- 
pathy from the heavenly verge, and to the glorious 
avenues that open endlessly upward and beyond. 



31 



A PllAYER. 



BE YE THEREFORE PERFECT, EVEN AS TOUR FATHER WHICH IS IN 
HEAVEN IS PERFECT." 

Father in Heaven ! Thou who hearest pray'r, 

Who madest me — who makest me thy care, 

Be glory thine, that I am not the clay 

Of brutish life, that perisheth away, 

But Man,— earth's lord, in thine own image formed, 

Breathing thy breath, by thine own spirit warm'd ; 

Deathless as thou art ; ma^e to mount tow'rd thee. 

O'er self triumphing, through eternity. 

O blest command, by thy Beloved, given, 

Of, " Be ye perfect," as Thou art, in heaven ! 

Thou Giver, kind, of every perfect gift, 

Whose height, the low above themselves can lift, 

Whose strength upon the strengthless sheds a might. 

Whose radiance round the dark diffuses light — 

let thine all-sufficiency descend 
On my beginning for thy glorious end ! 
Though such thy purpose — such I am to be, 

1 fail — I fall, unless I hold to thee ; 

Thy child would fasten to those living ties. 
By which the faithful cling and climb the skies ; 



364 A PRAYER. 

That chain of hallow'd feeling, holy thought, 

Up which they tend, down which thy spirit's brought, 

Whose links from earth, through heaven still bright'ning run, 

Till lost in glories of the Highest One, 

O Gracious Father ! upward as I spring. 

Upon my soul thine influences fling ; 

As thought and feeling lift the fervent pray'r. 

Let fall thy spirit in its fullness there ; 

As swell the strains of gratitude and love, 

Speed me to nobler songs of praise above. 

Still would I be what yet I ne'er have been. 

And grasp at glory faith alone hath seen. 

Would tread where angels, arch-angels, have trod, 

To stand perfection^ face to face with God ! 



